Daily Occurrences
by N.a.brun
Summary: Moments in the lives of the dynamic duo, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson. Full of Comedy, action, and sometimes sadness. All short stories written from one word chosen randomly from a dictionary. Requests taken! Updated every weekday this summer (ehh)! Reviews are very welcome :))
1. Crayfish (summer of 2015)

**CRAYFISH**

 _noun- a nocturnal freshwater crustacean that resembles a small lobster and inhabits streams and rivers._

* * *

John Watson smiled in relaxation, as he basked in the sun's warm light. He was sitting on a bench overlooking The Thames, accompanied by a very surly detective. John could practically feel the waves of irritation washing off of his companion. John reluctantly opened his eyes and glanced at him. He was met with an icy glare.

"Please enlighten me, as to why you interrupted me during a high-stakes case, and dragged me to a soggy park bench in front of a polluted river?"

John rolled his eyes in Sherlock Homes' direction. _Must we do this every time?_

He sighed and laid his head back on the seat. "You have been in seclusion for going on 37 hours, and I know for a fact that you haven't eaten or slept during any of that, because I've been with you the whole darn time. The world isn't going to end if you haven't found your missing person by tomorrow. Now Sherlock, please before you go bounding off give me ten minutes of not following you around."

John heard Sherlock mumbling incoherently under his breath as he stood and stalked off.

He felt his stiff muscles slowly loosen. John wasn't worried about Sherlock wandering off. He wouldn't go far without-

"OUCH!"

John's eyes flew open and he leaped out of his seat. "Sherlock?"

John couldn't believe what his eyes beheld. Sherlock was down by the waters edge, dancing around like a mad man, and swinging his arms violently. The next thing john noticed was a small black blob that was getting whipped around on the end of Sherlock's finger.

"Get it off, get it off, GET IT OFF!"

John couldn't hold in his laughter as he realized the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, was reduced to a shrieking school girl, by a small crayfish.


	2. Dagger

**Dagger**

 _noun_

 **1.** _a short knife with a pointed and edged blade, used as a weapon._

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes. His mind raced to catch up with his surroundings and he realized it was exactly 3 in the morning (according to the clock). That means it had been six hours since he and John had been jumped in the street by a gang of criminals. They had all been familiar faces, all people Sherlock had put behind bars for various offenses. Apparently he was a great rallying point for friendships in jail.

Sherlock tried to recall all of the events that had happened.

He and John had been leisurely walking back to Baker Street after a night out on a case. Sherlock had realized ten minutes in that they were being tailed. He didn't tell John, not wanting to concern him, but quickened his pace instead. Sherlock mentally mapped out the quickest way home in his mind, and sped off towards an alleyway, much to the annoyance of John. John had caught up to Sherlock a moment later, finding the shocked detective staring at a freshly bricked off wall. Sherlock turned to John with a slight flash of fear in his eyes.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John had asked.

They had then been confronted by the gang that had been tailing them. Sherlock's memory was a little foggy at that. This surprised him, what had happened?

Sherlock tried to sit up, but he felt a sharp jab of pain in his abdomen. He realized he was in his room, surrounded by darkness. He reached over and flicked on his lamp.

And to his surprise, the light beheld John Watson dozing in Sherlock's desk chair. Then it all came back as Sherlock's sharp eyes found the bejeweled dagger placed not far away from John's resting hand.

One of the crooks had an affinity for family heirlooms. He always carried his grandfather's 100 year old dagger in the case of needing it. Admittedly for illegal means. The crook in question had jumped on Sherlock, surprising him. The man with the dagger had the advantage, and sliced Sherlock's right side while he was caught off guard. Sherlock smiled in pride as he remembered how John had reacted.

Yelling Sherlock's name he had tackled the man standing above Sherlock to the ground, then pulled his gun on the others. The last thing Sherlock remembered was seeing John's hazy face hovering over his own.

Sherlock prodded his side gingerly, and counted a total of nine stitches.

Where would he be without his blogger?


	3. Cheesecake

**Cheesecake**

 _noun_

 **1**. _a kind of rich dessert cake made with cream and soft cheese on a graham cracker, cookie, or pastry_ crust, _typically topped with a fruit sauce._

* * *

John Watson walked into his flat at 221b Baker Street, ready for anything. He had been away for almost a full week, and he was honestly surprised to find the building still standing. His flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, was entirely unpredictable when he wasn't around. John entered the flat warily, his arms laden with bags of groceries. The entry room seemed normal enough. There was the usual clutter piling up on every available space. He then walked through it, past his armchair, and entered the disaster zone which had previously been the kitchen.

John's mouth was agape as he took in the expanse of white covering everything in the kitchen, the various cooking ingredients on the table, and a frazzled looking detective.

The detective glanced at John from his spot in front of the oven. "John? What are you doing here? You weren't supposed to be back until 3:00."

"Er... Sherlock, it's 3:01."

Sherlock Holmes stood up to his full height and faced John. He had a smudge of flour on his chin and a sheepish grin on his face.

John studied the mess on the dining table and looked at Sherlock shocked. "You weren't trying to bake a cake were you?"

To John's astonishment, a blush crept onto Sherlock's face.

"I... it was...experiment... You said you liked Cheesecake right?"


	4. Zoo

**Zoo**

 _noun-_

 _an establishment that maintains a collection of wild animals, typically in a park or gardens, for study, conservation, or display to the public._

* * *

"Sherlock? Did you hear anything I just said?"

Sherlock begrudgingly withdrew from his mind palace and looked up at John. Cue eye-roll from his flat-mate. John plopped into his armchair opposite Sherlock.

"Of course, you didn't."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John's tone. Something was bothering him. He swept his gaze over him.

 _His phone held limply in his hand- had just gotten off the phone. Dressed in casual clothes- as if for a night out. Facial expression- dejected. Forehead crinkled in frustration. Hands sweaty from expressive gesturing, and/or fist clenching. Two zoo tickets peeking out of his trouser pocket. Smelled of cologne._

Sherlock sat back into his chair. "Your latest girlfriend just dumped you on the phone, might I add on the eve of your... Hmm.. The anniversary was it? You were taking her to see the traveling zoo before it left town. Very expensive tickets as well. How unfortunate."

John quirked a smile. "Yep. A-plus for effort Sherlock. But it was her birthday today not our anniversary. And you failed to deduce the question I just asked you while you were staring off into space."

Sherlock huffed. There was always something.

"Would you like to come with me to the zoo? I don't fancy going alone. I'd probably look like an idiot, a middle-aged man gawking at snakes or something."

Sherlock noted how John avoided his gaze as he talked. Sherlock surprised himself when he answered,

"Why not? Wouldn't want to waste your money."

John looked honestly startled as he watched Sherlock leap up and snatch his coat.

"I might even be able to sneak out with a little slithery friend for you to snuggle with," Sherlock said mischievously, on his way out the door.

"Sherlock!"


	5. Fortuneteller

**Fortuneteller**

 _noun-_

 _a person who is supposedly able to predict a person's future by palmistry, using a crystal ball, or similar methods._

* * *

"Must I do this John? It's highly undignified." Sherlock Holmes said.

In response, his companion John Watson grabbed him firmly by the elbow and led him toward the large colorful tent. "You promised Sherlock. There's no backing out of this."

All week John had been looking forward to this. He led Sherlock into the tent, grinning in triumph.

Inside the tent, the air was hazy with perfume and smoke. Sitting behind a spangled table was a lady. Sherlock studied her apprehensively. She had long curly blond hair, a heart shaped face, and an upturned mouth. She peered at them as they stood in the entry way.

"Vell?" She said, in a heavy accent. " Are you here for a reading?"

John nodded enthusiastically and pushed Sherlock towards her table. Sherlock looked down at the stool and flicked a piece of the dust of the top. John stood back by the flaps, almost giddy in anticipation.

"My name is Madame Voulte. I vill be reading your fortune this fine evening."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth, presumably to lecture her on the inaccuracy of her profession. But Madame Voulte held up her hand in a commanding gesture and his mouth snapped shut.

John raised an amused eyebrow in the doorway.

"Now... Let's see..." Madame Voulte murmured, staring into a large quartz ball in front of her.

Sherlock was shifting uncomfortable in front of her when their gazes met.

"You're a special one aren't you? Da... troubled childhood." Madame Voulte held up a tarot card for Sherlock to see. A little boy was painted in a corner, tears leaking down his face. Dark shadows were creeping up on him on all sides.

Sherlock looked startled and sneaked a look back at John. However, he didn't get to see John's reaction as Madame Voulte continued.

"I see a young man, standing over a boy... yelling... condescending... You learned from that didn't you? You decided... you didn't want to feel those terrible emotions anymore... guilt, shame... love. I see the boy in adolescence, surrounded by a group of children, pushing, shoving... freak they said... I see parents... Vonderful people, something you could never achieve."

Sherlock was now staring wide-eyed at Madame Voulte. Entranced.

John shifted by the door. "Sherlock maybe we should go..."

Madame Voulte swept her arms wide. "Vait!" She commanded.

"I see your heart, Sherlock Holmes. A little part of it has thawed. Have you felt it? The caring for another human being. That's vhat frightens you so much... You're afraid to lose it. Just like everything else you've held dear. You are afraid of vhats in their heart.."

Madame Voulte's eyes widened. "Oh, My! I see love!"

John stepped forward and grabbed the shell-shocked Sherlock by the shoulder. "That's enough," he said and threw some money on the table.

He practically pulled the unresponsive Sherlock out of the tent. John hailed a cab and jumped into it followed by Sherlock.

"Sherlock I'm sorry. I just thought she'd put you in your place or something. I never meant for that to happen.."

"It's alright John," Sherlock rumbled.

He turned his face away to stare at the bleak streets, which reminded him so much of his childhood.


	6. Phosphorus

**Phosphorus**

 _noun-_

 _the chemical element of atomic number 15, a poisonous, combustible nonmetal that exists in two common allotropic forms, white phosphorus, a yellowish waxy solid that ignites spontaneously in air and glows in the dark, and red phosphorus, a less reactive form used in making matches._

* * *

"John. John wake up!"

John Watson moaned into his pillow and swatted at the source of his irritation.

"Ow! Okay, okay I get it. You don't want to wake up. But you'll be cross with me if you find out that you missed this in the morning."

John wrapped himself up in his duvet, looking as if he would never emerge.

"OH please John. Stop being such a drama queen."

He opened a bleary eye and glared at Sherlock.

"That's the spirit!" Sherlock said encouragingly.

He grabbed the grumpy Docter's wrist and tried to pry him out of bed. Instead, he succeeded in toppling both himself, and a cocooned John onto the floor. They lay there face to face for a moment, shocked. John pushed himself away from Sherlock, his face red.

"Don't ever," He said threateningly. "Do that again. Or I swear I will go all army on you."

Sherlock got to his feet grinning. "Well it got you out of bed didn't it?"

John mumbled angrily as he disentangled himself from his covers. He glanced at the clock.

"Sherlock Holmes. If you woke me up at bloody 3 in the morning, just so I can answer your phone again..."

"Oh no, it's nothing like that. Although I'm pretty sure my left ear will never be the same again."

John rolled his eyes.

"This time, an experiment has gone rather brilliantly wrong. I thought you might like to see it. I'm fairly certain it isn't poisonous." Sherlock ended thoughtfully.

* * *

"Do you EVER sleep..." John grumbled as he followed Sherlock out and down the stairs.

He almost ran into Sherlock as he entered the kitchen. His mouth fell open. All around him were small glowing lights, slightly illuminating the dark kitchen. John glanced up at Sherlock, whose own eyes were filled with a child-like wonder.

"What in the world did you do?"

"Simple John. I was heating a condensed rock of white phosphorus over a bunsen burner... and it combusted. It should wash out quite easily."

John frowned. "But were you wearing protective gear?..."

John trailed off as he saw Sherlock's bloody forearms. He sighed and went to retrieve his first aid kit.

"It's all in the name of science John!" Sherlock called after him.


	7. Sickness: Part 1

**Sickness**

 _noun_

 **1**. _the state of being ill._

* * *

"J-john?"

John Watson glanced up from his morning newspaper, and coffee. His gaze widened immediately, and a frown appeared on his face. There in the hallway to his room stood Sherlock. He swayed slightly as John looked at him with a practiced eye.

 _He's as white as a sheet._ John noted. _Visible s_ _weat line on the forehead, dilated eyes. A small flush of fever, tremor in hands._

John stood up slowly and approached his friend. "Sherlock are you-"

He was cut off as Sherlock's eyes rolled back, and he fainted onto John. John gasped as the full weight of the detective hit him.

"Geez Sherlock! I thought you were one of them, skinny blokes."

Sherlock didn't reply of course. John gentle lowered his unconscious flatmate to the floor. As the doctor in him took over, John scuttled around collecting his supplies, until Sherlock lay comfortable underneath a blanket with his feet propped up, and a cool rag on his forehead.

John briefly wondered if he had any allergies, but then he dismissed the thought, as Sherlock would not have been so careless as to not tell them to his residing doctor.

John tried to remember the last few days as he took the unresponsive man's temperature.

37.8 C _Hmm, not very good._

He couldn't recall any prior symptoms... except for last night. Sherlock had been acting peculiar, especially for his usual self. He had failed to give John any snappy retort in their previous argument. Then had gone to bed promptly at 8:30 followed almost immediately by his snores, which could be heard from the kitchen. And of course, John had no clue as to whether Sherlock had been eating or not.

He sat there for a moment and listened to Sherlock breathe. He had the slight urge to giggle, as he realized that even his friend's breathing sounded baritone.

John sighed, Sherlock had been unconscious too long. Unfortunately, he couldn't leave Sherlock lying here peacefully forever.

"Sherlock. Sherlock mate. Time to come back to the world."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.

"Come on you drama queen. Save your pretty ballerina dreams for bed, why don't you?"

 _Well at least that got a response._ John thought, as Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at John.

John helped Sherlock sit up gingerly while the latter moaned ferociously.

"Good God John!" He winced. "What in the queen's name happened?"

"You fainted," John said simply.

He watched concerned as Sherlock pulled himself into a chair, clutching at his abdomen. John sat opposite of him, watching as Sherlock bent over his stomach.

"I. Do. Not. Faint." Sherlock growled.

John snorted. "Alright then. Can you tell me where it hurts Sleeping Beauty?"

Sherlock's body shook with a chill. John bent and grabbed the blanket lying on the floor, handing it to Sherlock.

"Please?" John asked again.

"I'm fine John!" Sherlock said, his eyes flashing. "I am completely.. utterly, fine..."

Sherlock didn't get to finish his tirade, as he yelped suddenly in pain, sounding like a wounded animal.

"Sherlock?!"

Sherlock whimpered, his fingers clawing around his middle. "It hurts John. It hurts so much." He finally admitted, his voice catching. John was shocked to see his companion's bright blue eyes watering slightly.


	8. Appendicitis: Part 2

**Appendicitis**

 _noun-_

 _a serious medical condition in which the appendix becomes inflamed and painful._

* * *

"Sherlock, I think we should take you to the hospital."

"No! No John, please. Don't make me go there." Sherlock pleaded.

"Listen, Sherlock, I can't do everything you need here. We should go. You're in pain." John said.

No response. John stood up and walked over to Sherlock. "Let's get you to the couch okay?" he said, gently guiding his unresponsive flatmate.

Once he got him settled, meaning Sherlock was huddled in a little ball in the corner of the couch, John returned to the kitchen. As he started boiling water for tea, he stealthily drew out his phone and checked to see if Sherlock was watching.

 _Mycroft, I need you to come over here with an ambulance. Sherlock has a suspected case of appendicitis, I can't call or he'd hear me. Hurry please. -JW_

Almost immediately John's phone dinged, and he rushed to muffle the noise.

 _On my way. Keep him calm.-MH_

Awful retching noises started from the living room. John hurriedly dropped the tea cups he was holding, grabbed a bowl from the counter, and rushed to Sherlock's side.

"Sherlock! It's okay...shh.." John said, sitting next to Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock's face was horrified, as he coughed and spluttered.

"W-what's *gack*...w'ong with me Jo-ohn?"

John scooted closer to the trembling Sherlock and started rubbing small circles into his back. Sherlock stiffened at the touch but gradually relaxed.

"Well... it's a little early to tell. "

"J-john. Don't l-lie to me. Your m-my doctor, you'd have a d-diagnosis."

"Most likely it's appendicitis,"John admitted.

Sherlock lost the little color that was on his face. His eyes widened in shock. "At my a-age?" He spluttered.

Sherlock's mouth fell open as he realized something. "Oh God. No, no, no!"

Sherlock scrabbled at John's shirt. "Please, John! I don't want surgery, you can't let them, I d-don't want ANYONE inside my body. please don't let them touch me."

John's breath caught in his throat as he met Sherlock's huge, bright blue eyes. He felt an overpowering need to protect his best friend. John made a split-second decision and drew Sherlock into his arms.

"Listen to me Sherlock," he murmured to the frozen detective. "You need to calm down. Your body may be going into shock, which would be even more dangerous than surgery. I want you to take deep breaths with me."

He slowly let go of Sherlock and faced him. "1...2... 3..." Sherlock breathes out slowly then smiles.

"You hugged me, John."

"Um, I did. Yeah?"

"That's what someone does when they care about another person, correct?"

"Well, maybe I preferred not you didn't have a panic attack at that moment," John said, playfully poking Sherlock.

The loud sound of a siren filled Baker street.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Sneaky. Even f-for you John. I a-assume Mycroft is here? Oh well-" he trailed off as he winced again.

As they heard the doorbell wring, Sherlock looked at John.

"Thank you. Will you stay with me?"

"I wouldn't leave you even if you threatened to set Mycroft on me."


	9. Hurricane

**Hurricane**

 _noun_

 _-a storm with a violent wind, in particular, a tropical cyclone in the Caribbean._

 _-a wind of force 12 on the Beaufort scale (equal to or exceeding 64 knots or 74 mph)_

* * *

 _"_ _BREAKING_ _NEWS,_ _late today hurricane Clinton will hit England. Be careful to be indoors, and be prepared for a long stay,"_

John Watson switched off the news and put down his mug of tea. _And he was planning on going to work overtime at the clinic today..._

"What did the person just say?"

John was startled by his flatmate's voice, who had just come around the corner holding graduated cylinder.

"Wait who?"

"The little annoying man on the telly."

"Oh. There's going to be a storm today, they said it's a hurricane." John said.

A moment of silence, Sherlock turned pale, dropped his beaker, and ran out the door.

"Uhhh..."

John gave him a few minutes, then found his phone.

 _Are you planning on telling me where you ran off too? -JW_

John put his breakfast dishes in the sink, and when he returned to his phone he had two new texts.

 _Preparing John. -SH_

 _I'm still downstairs if you want to join me. -SH_

Why would Sherlock still be downstairs? John grabbed his coat and walked down the staircase. No Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Are you down here?" John called.

"Down here John." replied a muffled voice. John spun around and noticed it was coming from the cellar door. John's eyebrows rose, as he opened the creaky door. Another flight of stairs and he saw Sherlock huddled in the corner, with a torch and several blankets, and a bag of biscuits. And his laptop of course.

Sherlock looked up at John. "I saved you a blanket John," he said unblushingly.


	10. America

**America**

 _noun_

 **1.** either _continent (North America or S. America) of the western hemisphere_

* * *

"John can I tell you a story?"

"Sure I'm listening." said John, from behind his laptop.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"There once was a little boy, he was just like any other little boy. He was happy and content, he saw the world as something to be explored and loved to learn. He was in a tight-knit family, they all cared about one another very much. He had a smart older brother, a loving kind father, and a brilliant mother. As this little boy got older, they moved to the countryside. Far far away from any kids his age. His mother decided to homeschool him and his brother. Their mother, a brilliant young lady, schooled them the best she knew. She taught them science, anatomy, physics, astrometric, logic, anything and everything. Both boys excelled, and eagerly gobbled everything up. Both of them were so eager to learn, they became competitive for their mother's praise. Whoever got the highest score, succeeded in the most challenges, whoever deduced the right information, was smarter. Better."

"Both boys loved their parents very much. They idolized them, strived to be just like them. Their father was full of emotions. He cared for everyone, he had so much love in his heart. He had a brother, who he cared the world for. The father wanted his boys to have a similar relationship. He tried, again, and again, to get them to bond, tried to show them the beauty of brotherly love. But they were stubborn. They only cared about the competition. 'I'm the smart one.' the oldest always insisted. The little boy had to prove himself, had to prove he was as good as his brother. Then it was too late. For both of them."

"One day, the little boy's ninth birthday, his father was driving home to see his son, when his heart missed a beat. He had a cardiac arrest, his car swerved, and he crashed into the side of the road. There was almost immediate help, and he was rushed to the hospital. The little boy was alerted to the situation, by his tearful mother interrupting his two-person birthday party, and rushing them to the hospital. The little boy saw an almost unrecognizable man on the hospital bed, his strong, charismatic father was reduced to a feeble looking shell. He was in a coma, the Doctor told them. The two brother's sat side by side, watching the life slowly drain out of their father. The little boy sat there, his thoughts getting more and angrier. Why had this happened to his father? Wasn't he good enough? He helped people, and now he couldn't even help himself."

"The little boy heard his brother whisper something besides him. 'Sentiment is a disadvantage.' The little boy couldn't agree more."

"Hours later, the man opened his eyes one last time. He immediately saw his two sons, sitting there, and he opened his mouth to speak. His jaw moved but no sound came out. The two brothers rushed to his side. A single tear ran down his cheek. He met the gaze of the little boy, who watched as the life drained out of his eye's and until he was staring into nothingness. The little boy barely registered the sound of his father flat-lining. He just kept screaming his father's name again and again."

"Eventually, his mother moved on, she remarried a nice normal man, and his brother moved on. The little boy never moved on. He decided it was best not to feel his pain anymore. He locked his pain up inside his heart because he didn't want to feel it anymore. He didn't want to feel anything. He grew older and left his family. He moved to America and started a new life. However after a while, he felt something strange. He felt as if his birthplace was calling him. So the man with a hurt little boy trapped inside him returned. And he hasn't left since."

Sherlock finished his story and looked over at John, who was staring at him, mouth agape, laptop completely forgotten.


	11. Stare

**Stare**

 _verb_

 **1.** look fixedly or vacantly at someone or something with one's eyes wide open.

* * *

"Joh-"

"Shh."

"John.."

"Shhhhhh."

"Johnwhyareyoustaringatme."

"We're having a staring contest idiot."

"I fail to see.."

"HA! I win! You blinked, you lost.. hahaha.."

"John. Blinking is a human impulse. I fail to see why asserting brain power over halting that impulse is seen as a contest."

John stuck out his tongue at Sherlock and staggered slightly into the table.

"You're drunk John," Sherlock said from behind his microscope.

"No 'm not. I jurst had a couple drinkies.."

Sherlock sighed, stood up, and took John's arm. _How tedious._

"Come on now John. Let's get you to bed."


	12. Human

**Human**

 _adjective_

 **1.** of, relating to, or characteristic of people or human beings

* * *

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"Hmm?"

"You're a human," Sherlock observed.

"Why yes, I do believe I am."

A minute or two of silence passed.

"Out of curiosity, why did you ask?" John said.

"It's a very enlightening fact."

"... No, it's not. You're a human too."

"Oh yes, John. But you can tell a lot about a person on whether or not their human or not."

"Sherlock," John said worriedly. "Every person is human."

"How would you know?"

"..."

"..."

Sherlock's poker face slipped, and they both started laughing.


	13. Kidnapping

**Kidnapping**

 _verb_

 **1.** take (someone) away illegally by force, typically to obtain a ransom.

* * *

221B Baker street. 3:38 PM.

Sherlock is laying upside down on the couch with his eyes closed. John is trying in vain to fix the television.

DING DONG

"Oh come on you stupid thing... Sherlock, can you get the door?"

"..."

"Oh no, of course you can't. We wouldn't want the great Sherlock Holmes to be so burdened as the answer the doorbell. I wonder who it is this time. Maybe Martians."

His voice dripping sarcasm, John strolled to the door. On his way out, he plopped the remote onto Sherlock's exposed stomach. Sherlock grunted and threw the remote blindly in John's direction. It hit the wall.

Sherlock listened with one ear, as John made a racket on the stairwell, then almost trip, and open the door. Muffled voices followed by a lengthy silence. Sherlock's eyes opened approximately five minutes later. Something was wrong, John hadn't closed the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled as he leaped up. "Are you alright?"

He heard her muffled reply moments later, "Yes dear, I'm fine! Is something wrong?"

Sherlock didn't answer, as he leaned out of his flat and spied down into the foyer. The door was wide open, and John's coat was lying crumbled on the side of the frame. Sherlock's frown deepened and he bounded down the stairs, two at a time. He ran outside and stood next to _Speedy's observing_.

 _No. No. No. Definitely not a kidnapper with that cardigan._

He spotted a 1990's Volkswagon speeding away down the street and memorized it's license plate number. _An American car, in London._ He thought. _How... abnormal._

He drew out his phone from his blazer pocket and dialed. Oh, how he hated doing this.

"Yes, Mycroft? I need a favor. Someone took John."


	14. Fireworks

**Fireworks**

 _noun-_

 _a device containing gunpowder and other combustible chemicals that cause a spectacular explosion when ignited used typically for display or in celebrations._

* * *

John Watson looked out of the window at Baker Street. The sun was just setting over the tops of the houses, and dusk was starting to fall. It was Bonfire night in London, and John was eager because it was his first since being back in England. He had been trying to convince his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, to accompany him to see the fireworks.

Even Mrs. Hudson had gone out with a bunch of giggling elderly lady friends. As John finished surveying the practically empty street, he turned back to the room. His apathetic companion for the night was slumped over the back of his armchair, in an attempt at feigning sleep. _Probably to avoid more appeals to go out tonight,_ John thought.

"Sherlock."

"Hmph."

"Sherlock..."

"Do PLEASE shut up John."

"How about we go up the fire 'scape around back. We could see the fireworks on the roof."

"Yes, yes. Go do that John." Sherlock said, waving an arm dismissively.

"...Fine, ya big baby. Have fun watching fireworks in your mind palace."

John stomped out. Sherlock immediately hopped up and sighed with relief at John's exit. Tonight had put him in a compromising situation. Usually, he was alone on this night, which proved no huge problem. But know he had a nagging flatmate who wanted him to... accompany him.

The offer was tempting, but John mustn't find out. Nobody must find out. Mycroft already knew about it, which was bad enough. But technically it was his fault anyway.

Sherlock stood there, dancing around on his toes, as he listened to John clambering around on the fire escape outside.

He had already taken a pill for the panic... why not try it... It had been several years since he had actually been conscious when the fireworks went on. Maybe he had out grown his phobia. Sherlock mulled it over in his mind for a minute or two more, before coming to a decision.

What was the worst that could happen?...

Sherlock went downstairs first to grab his coat, and then headed to flights up, and climbed out the window next to John's room. Sherlock glanced down through the grating of the fire escape and estimated about a 30 to 40-foot drop. Hopefully, he wouldn't jump off the edge of the roof in terror, Sherlock thought grimly. Sherlock climbed up onto the roof, a realized he had never been up here before. It was quite like St. Bart's rooftop, however. Sherlock wondered how John knew about the roof.

He spied John, sitting with his back to the exhaust fan. Sherlock hesitantly walked over to John and sat beside him. John's face lit up with surprise at the sight of him.

"Wow. I didn't know I could be that persuasive." John said with a grin.

"I thought I'd like to observe the sound pollutions effect of Baker street."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh don't ruin it."

As John continued talking, Sherlock silently weighed the probability that he would have one of his old panic attacks.

He had taken a pill so, 50%

It was usually better with another person so, 35%

and he had a HUGE desire not to show any symptoms. So maybe 34.5% chance he wouldn't have one.

This wouldn't have been an issue if it hadn't been for Mycroft. That one time when they were little, and they took a family trip to America, Mycroft just HAD to take it upon himself to lock his little brother in a cottage on the 4th of July. The scoundrel had told their parents that Sherlock had run off to play with some other kids his age, because right outside the cottage was the huge field with lots of people, where they were launching the fireworks. The house was positioned just so, that the explosions reverberated horrendously inside the small house, traumatizing the young-

"Sherlock look! They're starting!"

 _ **Whizzzzz**_

 **BANG**

Sherlock stiffened as the noise from the far off fire works, reached the roof. As the colors fell back to earth, another, and another, firework rose up.

 **BANG**

 **BANG**

 **BANG**

Just like those endless explosions in America, long, long ago.

 _No, no, no, no._

This wasn't supposed to happen, there had been a 65.5% chance this wasn't going to happen...

Sherlock glanced over at John as he tried to control his breathing. John's smile grew hazy as Sherlock started to hyperventilate.

"Sherlock- Sherlock!"

John had finally noticed the impending disaster that was happening to his flatmate.

"Oh no. Hey, it's okay the fireworks are almost over.." John said, deducing what the problem was almost right away.

John directed the wheezing Sherlock to place his hands behind his head and lay down on his back. He didn't get that far, as Sherlock's eyes rolled into his head, and he passed out a foot from the ground. John caught his head before it could hit the concrete, and started tiling Sherlock's unresponsive body onto his side so he could get more air.

"Oh God Sherlock. I wish you told me." John whispered. He sighed and quirked a smile. "I'm sorry I called you a baby at first for not coming. You're very brave. And no I'm not going to repeat that when you are conscious."


	15. Hallucinations

**Hallucinations**

 _noun-_

 _an experience involving the apparent perception of something not present._

* * *

John was laying on his bed at 221B Baker Street, trying to get some rest before his flight. He was going to America for a week long trip to see his nephew. John sighed, _poor lad._ John heard the door open and close downstairs, and briefly wondered what Sherlock was doing. The detective in question had been sulking ever since John told him about his trip and had refused to talk to him.

John stared at the ceiling a few more seconds, before deciding it was worthless. His brain was to hyped up. As he got up from his bed, he heard Sherlock stomping around below him. John toyed with the idea of repacking his suitcase when he made out Sherlock's voice calling him.

"John! You've got a package he-"

 **BOOM**

John jumped, as a mini explosion rattled the floor. His vase full of flowers fell off his bedside table and broke on the floor.

"Sherlock?!"

John dashed down the stairs and entered the apartment below. He noticed a thick purple smoke seeping out of the kitchen, and hurriedly covered his nose with his shirt. John ran blindly into the fog, found Sherlock's limp body on the floor, and preceded to drag him into the living room.

"Sherlock, Sherlock wake up! What happened?"

John patted Sherlock's cheek lightly, in an attempt to revive him. He glanced up and saw that the dense fog was gone, and was dissipating into a light purple haze. John hauled Sherlock up onto the couch, still covering his nose. John propped Sherlock's head up on the union Jack pillow and was immensely relieved to see Sherlock's eyes flicker open.

"Hey. Hey, are you okay?"

Sherlock's unfocused eyes looked over at John and seemed to gaze right through.

"Sherlock?..."

Sherlock's eyes dilated suddenly, as he looked at a point over John's left shoulder. John, who was growing increasingly more worried, snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock's eyes.

His reaction was immediate, a yell of pure terror escaped Sherlock's lips, and he started thrashing around uncontrollably.


	16. Mug

**Mug**

 _noun_

 **1.** _a large cup, typically cylindrical and with a handle and used without a saucer._

* * *

The door to John Watson's room banged open, and the world's only consulting detective barged in. John was in that state of semi-consciousness, right between wakefulness and sleep.

"Wha- Sher- GO AWAY!"

"Sorry to disturb you John, but I have a slight emergency that you are going to be very mad about."

John sat up immediately.

"What. Did. You. Do."

"Um... well..." Sherlock had the decency to look ashamed as he held up the shattered remains of John's favorite vintage mug.

Silence. John seemed to want to burn a hole through Sherlock with his gaze.

Sherlock broke the awkward silence. "Heh... If looks could kill, you'd win the grand homicidal prize, John."

"..."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"..."

"An even better one."

"..."

"I'll buy you dinner."

"..."

"You can take all the body parts out of the fridge if you like." Sherlock pleaded.

John's face broke into a smile.

"That's great Sherlock. Now let me sleep."

"Wha- but you were so angry!" Sherlock spluttered.

"I was just trying to see how guilty I could make you," John said, getting up and shoving Sherlock out the door. "You can buy me a new one tomorrow. Good evening!"


	17. Let's play murder (special chapter)

**A/N** ** _Sorry I didn't exactly get this one from a dictionary, but I couldn't resist. This takes place right after John's wedding, and when Sherlock leaves early._**

 **Let's Play Murder**

Where'd you go? -JW

Sherlock? Are you ok? -JW

I had work to do. -SH

I... appreciate your concern. -SH

No problem. Thank you by the way. -JW

For? -SH

I've always wanted to be a father. -JW

I'm happy for you John. -SH

Have fun on your honeymoon. -SH

Oh we haven't left yet, the flight has been delayed. We have a 2 hour wait. -JW

How tedious. The reliablity of london airports is often questionable. -SH

Yeah.. Mary wanted to thank you again, for letting us use your cottage in Sussex. She's ecstatic. I'm a tiny bit worried about the bees. -JW

They're harmless John! -SH

There is 14 rows of beehives in the back yard. Mary's allergic. -JW

Oh. On second thought your probably right. -SH

Be sure to keep her inside. -SH

Are you telling me how to keep my wife safe? -JW

Are you cross with me? -Sh

No, no Sherlock, I was only teasing. -JW

It's so much easier talking to you in person. -JW

Agreed. -SH

 ** _5 minutes later_**

So you would poison me huh? -JW

What? -SH

You remember, before the whole Major Sholto fiasco. "Let's play murder." ? You said you would poison me. If you were going to kill me -JW

Oh. -SH

I found that hilarious. -JW

You did? -SH

Yes, and offending. You want to know how I would kill you? -JW

I'm on the edge of my seat. -SH

Wow. Sarcasm from Sherlock Holmes. -JW

A gun. Obviously. -JW

Tables have turned. How exactly is it obvious? -SH

It's my weapon of choice. My background in shooting, my previous killings, and I would most likely have it on hand..- sorry mary's trying to read our conversation give me a minute.. -JW

I have nothing else to do. -SH

Okay, I've escaped to the men's room. Goodness. Women. -JW

That doesn't give you free will to rant about women. -JW

I wasn't going too. I find Mrs. Watson a very engaging female. -SH

Yes, you two seem to have quite the friendship. -JW

Well a man's best friend, should like his mate's wife shouldn't he? -SH

You just can't get over it. -JW

Uh you've lost me. -SH

That your my best friend. You keep saying it so often. And that's not a bad thing Sherlock, its currently making me smile. -JW

Didn't you have a best friend when you were little? -JW

No. Never. Just me, and my prissy brother. -SH

That's not very nice. -MH

Mycroft?! -JW

GO AWAY. -SH

STOP HACKING MY PHONE. NOW. -SH

I SWEAR MYCROFT I WILL FIND YOU RIGHT NOW.. -SH

Caps lock isn't very becoming of you dear brother. Also threats. Your threats over text are quite humorous really. -MH

Sorry John, have to go throw my phone out the window. I'll contact you with my new number soon. -SH

I apologize for my little brother's drama queen act. -MH

Oh no it's fine, I'm actually getting strange looks, because I'm cracking up in the loo. -JW

Excuse me John, I have urgent matters to attend to. -MH

Mycroft, one question, why did you hack Sherlock's phone? -JW

It's ever so fun to irritate Sherly. Good afternoon John, congrats on the wedding. -MH

Good day. -JW


	18. Cat

**Cat**

 _noun-_

 _a small domesticated carnivorous mammal with soft fur, a short snout, and retractile claws. It is widely kept as a pet or for catching mice, and many breeds have been developed._

* * *

 _"MEOW"_

"John."

"Hmm?"

"Stop him doing that"

"Doing what?"

" _MEOW"_

"Oh."

"Stop. Now." Sherlock picked the cat up around the middle and looked him straight in his bright blue eyes.

" _Meowwwwwww"_

"Shut up."

"It's a cat, Sherlock. He can't understand you."

"I don't care. Make him stop PLEASE"

Sherlock dumped the black cat into john's lap and swept himself away dramatically. John admired the handsome cat and realized, as he started purring, how uncannily like Sherlock the cat looked.


	19. Insomnia

**Insomnia**

 _noun-_

 _habitual sleeplessness; inability to sleep_

* * *

Tedious. 'Sleep is tedious John!', 'I don't need to sleep John, the game is on!', 'I'm not tired.'

What Sherlock Holmes had never admitted to John, is that it was a struggle for him to sleep. He dreaded the work it would take to actually force himself to sleep. The most convenient way to get sleep was to deprive himself of it until his body threatened to shut down. Then all he had to do, was lie down, and his brain would switch off.

He had struggled as a child, under the watchful eyes of his parents, it was quite hard to stay up past bedtime. So he had often lay sleepless into the mid-hours of the morning, the entire time it took to sift through all his overwhelming thoughts, and disregard them until his brain was empty.

Not much had changed. He had tried Melatonin, other natural sleeping pills, and casually quizzed John on all he knew about Insomnia. Nothing worked. So as much as Sherlock hated it, he had resorted to the method he had used as a child.

As John snored upstairs, Sherlock pulled his duvet off of his bed, arranged his pillows, got two extra blankets from the closet outside, and stood back to inspect his freshly built cocoon. He slipped inside of the poofy tent and lay for a moment.

 _Something is missing._

Sherlock extracted himself from his covers, careful not to collapse it, and strode to one side of his room. He had put all of his unpacked boxes in the corner. He rummaged through one of them and pulled out a fluffy quilt. It had a pattern of bees sewn across it, and as Sherlock admired it, he allowed himself a small smile. Remembering the long hours and pricked fingers it had taken to construct his childhood blanket. It had been quite a sewing achievement for a four-year-old.

Sherlock took it back to his make-shift bed and snuggled in for the long night. That's how John Watson found him the next morning, snoring, half covered by a bee blanket.


	20. Shower

**Shower**

 _noun-_

 _an enclosure in which a person stands under a spray of water to wash._

* * *

Sherlock peeked out of his room, as he heard John exiting the flat. Sherlock had deduced earlier that he was going to meet a girlfriend, and would not return for several hours.

 _That's really none of your business._ Mind-John snapped.

Sherlock waved him away and stepped out into the hallway. He stood there for a moment, unsure. There hadn't been a case for days, and Sherlock had been practically dying of boredom.

 _Drama queen._

"Shut up John!"

He spun around, swatting at the invisible John, and decided to take a shower. Their water bill was relatively low, Sherlock thought. Why not indulge a bit?

Striding into the bathroom, he shed his silken dressing gown and clothes. He turned the water on quite high and sat on the edge of the tub. He watched curiously, as the bathroom slowly filled with steam. He stood and walked over to the mirror, then tracing his name, and watching as water droplets ran down the foggy surface.

 _ **William Sherlock Scott Holmes**_

Sherlock was never planning on admitting it to John, but he was actually quite lonely when he wasn't around. He had gotten so used to John and when he just left...

In fact that one time that he let on a bit too much information to one of John's female interests... Yeah, best not think about that.

Sherlock's mind had even taken to subconsciously dredging up Sherlock's old John model from his mind palace. It was quite annoying because Sherlock had formulated the model back when John had been oh so much more annoying.

Sherlock thought about all of this, as he languished in the hot shower. The water gradually turned his pale skin red, and he felt his breathing shallow. He hated what a hot shower did to him. But it felt so darn good!

Sherlock started humming unknowingly started humming the national anthem. Soon he was full out singing. _What in the world was wrong with him?_ Mummy had insisted on voice lessons when he was younger, and Sherlock had enjoyed them. He hadn't gotten to sing in ever so long of a time. Sherlock sang loudly, belting out the words in his deep baritone, to the chrome showerhead.

 _"God save our gracious queen,_

 _Long live our noble queen,_

 _Send her victorious,_

 _Happy and glorious,_

 _Long to reign over us,_

 _God save the queen-"_

Sherlock broke off, as he heard clapping outside the door.

Sherlock blushed a deep red, as John Watson called from outside the door, "Bravo! Bravo!"


	21. Colors

**Color**

 _noun-_

t _he property possessed by an object of producing different sensations on the eye as a result of the way the object reflects or emits light._

* * *

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"What's your favorite color?"

"Uh... I dunno."

"Well if your life depended on you answering, what would you say?"

"Does my life depend on it!?"

"That is irrelevant. Answer the question."

"... Yellow."

"Why wouldn't you just say that in the first place?"

"My sister used to make fun of me for it."

"Oh."

"..."

"That's my favorite color too," Sherlock smiled at John, the first sign of emotion in days.


	22. Truth

**Truth**

 _noun-_

 _the quality or state of being true._

* * *

Sherlock gazed at the vial in front of him with a cold apprehension. John Watson, who was sitting beside him, was looking back and forth between the two.

"Sherlock, you're not really going to drink it are you?"

"I have little choice, John. A man's life depends on it after all." Came the toneless response.

"But what if it's dangerous? Poison at best?"

"I trust you'll react accordingly," Sherlock said, patting John on the back.

He picked up the vial. The bright green liquid sloshed ominously inside.

"Your health John," Sherlock said.

He raised the vial to his lips and gulped down the unknown elixir while gazing steadily at John's worried face. They sat there, waiting. A hiccup from Sherlock interrupted the silence.

"Well?" John inquired.

"It certainly wasn't the best thing I've ever tasted. It reminds me of Angelo's coffee in fact. The man makes the best ravioli but is hopeless at brewing coffee. In fact on a case one day I stopped in at his place, and low and behold there was a customer there, who must have been feeling obnoxious. He was complaining about the watery coffee at the top of his voice. I dare say he was booted out a minute later. Angelo is quite touchy 'bout his foods."

John stared at Sherlock as if he were turning green. "Are you feeling alright there Sherlock?"

"Never better John! Although on second thought, I have felt better. On that trip to the west seaside, with my mum and dad. Mycroft was left at home, best vacation of my life! I remember..."

John looked at his rambling flatmate worriedly. His eyes were dilated, and a flush was creeping up on his cheeks.

"Yes, she had a nasty sweater on. Actually now that I think about it, it was quite like that tan jumper you have. Hideous thing. I would so like to strangle a cat with it. I wish you'd let me burn all your jumpers, John. I think that would make a large improvement on your wardrobe. Might even get the attention of that lady you fancy at your office, she probably dislikes your jumpers, as she often looks averts her gaze from you whenever you are wearing one that I witness. It's the human instinct to turn away from anything the visually repulses you. Hey, I noticed this morning, your eyes are looking a little bloodshot, Long night? You should try eyedrops before you see other people. They might assume the wrong things. People do that quite often when you look at the probability-"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John? I can tell by the tone of your voice you are unusually more annoyed with me than the usual. Maybe you should try-"

"Shut up, please. While I go dump this truth potion far, far away from you."


	23. Artist

**Artist**

 _noun-_

 _a person who produces paintings or drawings as a profession or hobby._

* * *

When Sherlock emerged from his room after a long night of contemplating his latest case (and observing the grooves in his ceiling), he found John Watson sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a box of paints and a pad of paper.

Two things about this scene surprised Sherlock. Number one, where had these painting supplies come from? He had never known John to be an artist. The second thing was that it was 5 in the morning.

"Ah, good morning John. A bit early for you isn't it?"

John gave no reply. Sherlock examined the paints a little bit more closely.

A faded out name was lightly drawn on the outside of the box, he could make out the name " _Watson"_ at the end. The case of the paints was well worn, with silver flowers adorning the edges. The hinges had broke once from an excess of opening and shutting and had recently been replaced. There was a fine paintbrush, a very elegant specimen, it would clearly be worth a bit. The pad of paper was fairly new, but at least a quarter of the pages had been flipped over. Obviously, both items had been used frequently and cherished.

"John?" Sherlock ventured again.

"Please, leave me be Sherlock," John said, his voice cracking.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. He stepped closer, and before John could object, he took the pad of paper from the table. He flipped the papers over and was met with flashing images of dark, angular forms, a fiery dragon, a weeping child, and an angel that took up a 2-page spread. At the front of the pad, Sherlock's quick eyes found the name,

 **HARRIET ALICE WATSON**

That was outlined several times over in Sharpie.

 _Oh no..._

"John... Why do you have your sister's drawing book?"

All Sherlock could see was John's back, but he saw him visibly stiffen when he spoke. Sherlock slowly replaced the pad of paper in front of John, and turned to face him. His face was ashen, and he wouldn't move his eyes from the table.

"Is she... dead?" Sherlock asked, after a long pause.

John's composure broke, and his breath started coming out in pained rasps. Green eyes met blue, and Sherlock watched as John's eyes overfilled with tears, and he started sobbing quietly, not moving from his sigil at the table. Sherlock sat there, at an utterly complete loss at what to do. as he watched his tough, ex-soldier flatmate break down in front of him.

"S-she died-d of Alcohol p-poisoning." John gasped. "Last night. After y-you went to bed-d, her s-stuff was b-brought to me. Sh-she was an amateur A-artist..."

Sherlock remained sitting opposite of John, gazing at him fiercely, as the Docter's sobbing died down to an occasional snuffle. Sherlock found himself reaching out his hand and offering him his handkerchief. John looked at it surprised for a moment, then took it. He nodded gratefully and preceded to blow his nose.

"I'm sorry about that.." John wheezed.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Sorry?"

"Don't apologize. There was nothing at all to apologize for. Any man at all would do that. But please, I'M sorry. I hope I didn't come across tactless. I am so very sorry about your sister."

John gave a watery grin.

"Thank you. It's just... It's just that I realized that I never got to apologize to Her. She... She never forgave me. And she's d-dead. Now I'll never get the chance-..."

John's face fell once more, and he started gulping as if to swallow his oncoming tears. Sherlock stood, and took a step closer to John.

"Come here."

John rose up, confused, and closed the distance between them. Sherlock gathered his best friend into a hug, as a fresh wave of sobs broke out. Sherlock had braced himself for the unpleasantness of touch, but he knew it was what John needed most at the moment. After a moment, he noticed that it wasn't that bad after all. Even if John was soaking his perfectly good nightshirt.


	24. Farsighted

_**A/N this chapter takes place 12 years after the Sherlock begins. Thank you melodyofsong526 for all the wonderful reviews! :)**_

 **Farsighted**

 _adjective-_

 _unable to see things clearly, especially if they are relatively close to the eyes, owing to the focusing of rays of light by the eye at a point behind the retina; hyperopic._

* * *

Sherlock sat on the doctors bench, twitching irritably.

"This is highly unnecessary." The consulting detective huffed.

"No. It's really not. You have a problem." John Watson replied.

He sat in silence for a minute, as the eye doctor examined him. When it came time for the next test, Sherlock bent down to the machine and put his eyes to it. He snorted as it blew a puff of air into his eye, causing John to smile.

As the optometrist looked over his notes, John reflected on the events which had lead to the drastic measures of dragging Sherlock to get glasses.

There had been too many occurrences of Sherlock bumping into things, not being able to read as well as he used to, tripping over John. The last straw for John was when together they had been chasing a criminal, and just as they cornered him, he landed a punch right on Sherlock's jaw, that he had been unable to see coming. As much as it perturbed John, his weakness irked the detective twice as much so. He had started to doubt himself, which he was not used to doing.

He didn't understand it. He had perfect, vision all his life, why was it fading now?

"Old age," John muttered as if reading his mind.

Sherlock looked at John, highly affronted. "I am not old!"

"Next week is your 52nd birthday. Some might consider that a little past your prime." John said teasingly.

As Sherlock looked away and started mumbling obscenities under his breath, John grasped him by the shoulder.

"Just... don't let it get to you okay? You'll still be the greatest consulting detective around."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and nodded at John gratefully.


	25. Street Cleaner

**Street cleaner**

 _noun-_

 _a person whose occupation is to clean streets._

* * *

Of all the jobs Sherlock had had to do when he was undercover, the time he had to pose as a street cleaner was the worst.

He was stuck for over eight hours trailing the garbage driver, and he worked just about the most he ever had for a case. After grueling hours in the long hot sun, Sherlock finally caught the driver in the act and snapped a photo.

The police converged on them minutes later.

"Oh God Sherlock, you reek!"

DI Lestrade had the time of his life, carpooling an extremely grumpy detective back to Baker Street.

At the door, he said,

"Please do us all a favor, and take a bath will you?"

Sherlock snarled at him and slammed the door behind him. John was very surprised to see a despondent, dirty, Sherlock walk in the door a minute later.

"I really shouldn't have let you stay home on that one," Sherlock muttered as he trudged to the loo.


	26. Typhoid Fever

**Typhoid Fever**

 _noun-_

 _an infectious bacterial fever with an eruption of red spots on the chest and abdomen and severe intestinal irritation_.

* * *

Sherlock didn't look up from his computer as he heard his flatmate, John Watson, stumped slowly into the room.

He didn't give any sign that he had noticed John until half-an-hour later. He glanced over at John, about to retort something about John's latest Blog post, but he hesitated. The Doctor was lying with his head tilted back, eyes closed in his armchair. His face was blotchy and red, and a visible sheen of sweat shown on his forehead. Sherlock's mouth closed, as he surveyed the resting man. _Must have been a rough day._ Sherlock thought.

He turned back to his computer and started typing a patronizing email to Lestrade. He was interrupted a minute later when John started hacking violently. Sherlock looked at him, alarmed. His eyelids were fluttering, as his body was racked with a cough after cough, but he didn't wake.

"John?" Sherlock said.

He was slumped over in his armchair now, having finally stopped coughing. Sherlock flipped his computer away and extracted himself from his cocoon on the couch. Sherlock stumbled over to John, shaking his foot to dislodge the blanket clinging to it.

"Hey. Hey, are you okay?" Sherlock said, patting John's upturned face lightly.

Sherlock could see the whites of John's eyes under his half-closed eyelids. Sherlock wondered if he should call , but then remembered the smelling salts he had been experimenting with a week ago.

Now where had he put them...

He found them a short time later, duct-taped to the ceiling in the bathroom.

"I got them, John!" He yelled triumphantly, after several attempts at jumping for them, and one of falling off the toilet.

The detective came bounding back into the living clutching the small rock. He waved them under John's nose and was rewarded with a weak groan.

"Mmph- Sh'rlock... I d'nt feel-l too 'ood.."

John's tawny eyes flickered open and tried to focus on the bouncing man before him.

"Are you alright John? Where does it hurt? Is it your shoulder, or were you attacked, or are you sick, or-"

"Sh-hhshh.."

John waved a shaky hand at Sherlock, trying to calm him down.

"I-I'm fine... I dunno wha' happened.." John said.

He tried to right himself and gasped as a wave of intense pain grabbed his head and.. _Squeezed._ He gritted his teeth, as the hovering Sherlock turned hazy. Ohhh everything ached. As if he had just been turned into very pliable taffy, and been twisted and pulled. He felt new meaning to the word exhausted. In fact.. he would just love to take a nice, long, nap...

"No, no, no don't do that John! Don't fall asleep!"

John dredged his subconscious back up from the dark to a very insistent patting. A sharp slap to the cheek awakened him lightning fast.

John's eyes locked on the slightly guilty looking detective in front of him. He shook his head, his cheek still stinging.

"Sorry."

"S'okay.." John murmured.

"Just don't go to sleep, okay? I need to research your symptoms-"

"Shr'lock?"

Sherlock spun around with his computer in hand, fingers flying.

"Yes?"

"Why're yo'u so pr'ple?"

Sherlock looked surprised. He glanced down at his shirt, noting it wasn't his purple one.

"Um... John, I think you're getting delirious."

"No'm no'at.."

John was too busy admiring how the ceiling seemed to sparkle, to notice Sherlock dialing 999 and asking for an ambulance.

"Yes. Yes, he's delirious. No of course not!" Sherlock yell-whispered into his phone. "How stupid do you think I am? I have already researched his symptoms, and there is a 90 percent likely hood he's has a severe case of typhoid fever. Yes. How long will you be? That's not acceptable. Surely there's a spare ambulance somewhere, and make sure you get it here pronto, or you'll have ME to answer too."

John thought how beautiful the shimmering waves of grass were, Sherlock would love to see this...

Long fingers snapping in front of his eyes diverted his attention.

"John? John, I need you to look at me. Please concentrate. How long have you been feeling poorly?" Sherlock monotoned.

He was internally cursing himself for not noticing his friends ailment sooner. It was obvious now he had a well-developed case of Typhoid, which meant this had been going on for several days. A small voice in the broom closet of his mind palace whispered, _What if this is your fault? Doctor's are the worst patients, John would have kept going until he keeled over. He wouldn't keep a sick feeling from him helping you..._ Sherlock winced as he recalled how he had been drilling the life out of John recently.

John's brow furrowed as he turned the word's over in his mind. A memory surfaced from about a week ago when he had discovered the rose spots snaking their way around his tummy. He had dismissed it at the time, thinking he would get over it.

"May'e aro'nd a fortnigh' since I con'tract'd 't."

Sherlock frowned at him. He shook his head and turned away. John felt a sinking sensation in his (painful) gut. _Sherlock was disappointed..._

"And you did nothing. Why John? You're a doctor for God's sake!" Sherlock snapped.

"'m s'rry... I didn't mean t-to disa-ppoin't you.."

Sherlock's face cleared of all annoyance for a moment. "You didn't disappoint me, John. I'm just cross because you won't bloody take care of yourself, instead of everybody else."

John smiled/grimaced. "I'll try not to g't s'ck next time."

Sherlock grinned. "Anyway, it's hard for you to protect Me from all the baddies when you're coughing yourself to death."

John chuckled and played along.

"Not your bodyguard Sherlock."

"No, but you're my Doctor."


	27. Fencing

**Fencing**

 _noun-_

 _the sport of fighting with swords, especially foils, épées, or sabers, according to a set of rules, in order to score points against an opponent._

* * *

"John! We're going out!"

Sherlock's voice echoed throughout the entire flat. John snuggled deeper into his blankets and tried to ignore the pounding steps racing up the staircase. He glared at the door, as Sherlock hammered it from outside.

"Go away," John called.

"It's time to get up! We have an appointment to make-"

"What if I don't want to go!?" John bellowed.

No sound came from the other side of the door for a moment.

"Well.." Sherlock said, hesitantly. "If you really don't want to come along..."

John moaned into his pillow, knowing exactly what Sherlock was doing outside his door.

"Quit it!" John said.

"I wasn't doing anything!"

"You were puppy-dog eyeing my door!"

"I was doing no such thing!"

John could hear the smile in his flatmate's voice.

"It'll be exciting.." His flatmate teased.

Groaning, John sat up. He threw a pillow at the door, and yelled, "Fine!"

"Good. How do you feel about learning to fence?"


	28. Eggs

**Eggs**

 _noun-_

 _an oval or round object laid by a female bird, reptile, fish, or invertebrate, usually containing a developing embryo. The eggs of birds are enclosed in a chalky shell while those of reptiles are in a leathery membrane._

* * *

"Doorbell."

"Doorbell!"

"DOORBELL!"

"ANSWER THE BLOODY DOOR JOHN!"

John got up from the kitchen table grinning. He "Accidently" knocked the pepper shaker over onto Sherlock's freshly made eggs, while he called to Sherlock's closed bedroom door.

"Fine 'ya big baby! But eat your breakfast!"

John slowly walked down the stairs and was rewarded with the sound of Sherlock hacking, and sneezing horrendously.

"JOHN!"

John hurried to the door before he could face the wrath of Sherlock. Just as he opened the door, he heard the sound of a window opening upstairs.

"Oh! Hello, Mycroft."

A very perturbed looking Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, his suit, and hair covered in peppery eggs. He took several breaths before he opened his mouth.

"I am here.. to take Sherlock to a crime scene. If you please, would you get him for me?"

John nodded, and turned around, wincing from the smell of strong pepper.

"Oh and John?"

"Yes?"

"Do tell Sherlock an excess of pepper, is bad for the digestive system." Mycroft snarled, flicking eggs off his shoulder.

As John turned away, he swore he could hear raucous laughter coming from the floor above.


	29. Bees

**Bees**

 _noun-_

 _a honeybee_

* * *

"Ow!"

"Sherlie are you alright out there?"

The seven-year-old Sherlock Holmes held his throbbing fingers, as tears sprang to his eyes. His mother was watching him while she did the dishes inside, and rushed out to the yard when she heard him crying.

"Sherlie!"

Sherlock ran to his mum, straight into her stretched out arms.

"Shh... Shh... It's alright my wee laddie. Your gonna be okay..." She crooned.

Sherlock snuffled into her wet shoulder, "But mommy it stung me! Am I going to turn into a bee like Mikey said?"

Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes and prayed for patience to deal with her elder son.

"Now Sherlie... don't you listen to Myc, he was just playing!"

Mrs. Holmes tapped Sherlock's nose and kissed his red finger.

"Why'd it sting me, mum?" Sherlock asked. As he wiped at his eyes, trying to hold back tears.

"Well," Mrs. Holmes sat down in front of her son. "If you were a wee insect, and you saw this Huge! , giant creature lumbering towards you and your family, threatening the lives of everyone you care for would you die to protect them too?"

Sherlock's bight eyes showed he was following every word. He frowned when Mrs. Holmes finished speaking.

"Bu-... It's not dead mommy, is it?"

Mrs. Holmes realized she had said too much. She cringed and said, "Yes Sherlock, it died when it stung you. It cannot live without a stinger."

Sherlock's tears started flowing freely again.

"I-I Did-dn't want to kill it, mommy!"

Mrs. Holmes drew the sobbing boy close and picked him up in her arms.

"It's not your fault Sweety. That's just the way the world works. Now let's get some ice on the sting shall we?"


	30. Tea

**Tea**

 _noun-_

 _a hot drink made by infusing the dried, crushed leaves of the tea plant in boiling water._

* * *

As the early morning sun shone through the cracks in the blinds, John Watson came barreling in the door to the living room.

"Sherlock Holmes! _What_ did you put in my bloody tea?!" John bellowed.

There was no sign of the nasty culprit in the living room. John stalked through it like a predator searching for its very unfortunate prey.

"Sherlock. You are a dead man. I KNOW YOU'RE HERE!"

John spun around when he heard a soft snigger, coming from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. John growled softly and stepped forward, intending to have a nice long face -to-face chat with _Mister_ Holmes.

As John strode through the chemically infested kitchen, he saw himself in the mirror for the second time since he drank his tea. His bright orange skin glared back at him.

"Did you enjoy your tea?" A innocent sounding voice asked.

"SHERLOCK!"


	31. Dog

**Dog**

 _noun-_

 _a domesticated carnivorous mammal that typically has a long snout, an acute sense of smell, and a barking, howling or whining voice. It is widely kept as a pet or for work or field sports._

* * *

Sherlock found a dog one late summer's night. It was yapping about in the darkened alleyway between Angelo's and the market, one of the many spots vagrants of the worst kind loved to frequent.

He immediately thought he would bring it home to John. It was bouncing around in a dark alleyway while Sherlock was skulking around. It found him and started nuzzling his legs. No amount of shooing or yelling would scare it away.

Well. Sherlock thought. We could use another mouth to feed.


	32. Lamp

**Lamp**

noun-

a device for giving light, either one consisting of an electric bulb together with its holder and shade or cover, or one burning gas or a liquid fuel and consisting of a wick or mantle and a glass shade.

* * *

 _I was bought a week ago today. Ever since I left the nice confines of my store shelf, I had been on nonstop. My owners had me on constantly. Specifically the one with a mop of black hair. To my knowledge, humans, perform a strange ritual called sleep, when it goes dark outside. Their brains shut off, and their bodies regenerate energy. Much like me, whereas I am plugged into a power source._

 _The one with black hair never seemed to 'sleep'. Even after the short one disappeared, the black hair stayed in the circle of my light._

 _Tonight, though, something appeared to be different. Earlier my two owners had come barging in the door to my room, laughing victoriously. Tonight they are celebrating, for what I do not know. After what seemed like hours of cheering, teasing, and a small explosion, both of my owners sat down on the sitting tool beside me. The short one looked haggard and exhausted._

 _However, he managed to keep his eyes from closing for another space of time, as the two gazed dead-eyed at the box with moving pictures._

 _The short one's head began to droop.. his eyes began to shut. His head flopped over onto the shoulder of his companion, who looked at him surprised._

 _He had started to move away but hesitated. The black haired one reached out a long arm and grabbed the blanket resting beside me. Very gently, as to not disturb his slumbering companion, he spread it wide and laid it across the short one's legs. He tucked it behind his shoulder._

 _Then for the first time in a week, my owner reached out and pulled the string attached to me. I was turned off, but I still watched in the light of the picture box, as eventually, after several more hours, the black haired man gradually drifted off to sleep. To two men slept side by side. A victory well deserved._


	33. Classified

**Classified**

 _verb-_

designate (documents or information) as officially secret or to which only authorized people may have access.

* * *

"THE CASE IS WHAT?!" Sherlock yelled into his mobile.

John winced, as he knew that was exactly what the poor soul Greg Lestrade was doing on the other end.

"You have NEVER said that before to me in my life! Don't you dare Gary- whatever!" The furious detective lowered his voice to dangerous tones.

"You need me. Your small idiotic brain couldn't handle a 'top secret' case without ME-"

"I Don't CARE what the government says, I can, and I will break in there if I have too. Don't force my hand, Gabe."

John tried to bury himself deeper into his newspaper, and go un-noticed but to no avail. Everything within immediate reach suffered the wrath of Sherlock Holmes.

"Ow!" John got out of the way and scurried into the kitchen.

"NO you cannot talk to John right now! He is a bit INDISPOSED... No I'm not doing anything to him... not presently anyway..."

"I'm fine Greg!" John called, safely in the kitchen.

John listened to the tense silence, because he knew exactly what was going to happen next, having been the victim of Sherlock's favorite persuasion tactic multiple times.

"Please. Please... Greg... I can help, I want to save these people who are in danger, they need me, you need me, would you really want to be responsible for them when I'm not there to figure it out before they get harmed?"

"... OH, OF COURSE, IT ISN'T UP TO YOU. SILLY ME."

John heard the sound of something shattering in the next room, but he wisely stayed where he was.

"This is going to be all your fault, Gale! Your fault entirely, not mine, not the criminal's, YOURS. Because you know what? The guy is going to get away before you even figure out who he is!"

There was silence for several minutes. Sherlock had stopped pacing around in the living room.

Suddenly he appeared in the doorway red-faced and panting.

"Classified." He spat. "I've never heard a word so ridiculous before."


	34. Drowning

**Drowning**

 _verb-_

 _die through submersion in and inhalation of water._

* * *

 _Ringing_.. louder, getting softer... slowly falling.

Falling...

Jumbled up words... what were they?

 _Explosion.._

 _Sherlock.._

 _Bomb..._

 _Pool..._

Getting deeper, and deeper.

Something isn't right. What's not right? I-

I can't-

 _I can't breathe!_

Head pounding furiously, the struggle for consciousness began.

Wake up- NO.

Have to- CAN'T.

YOUR DROWNING.

John Watson's subconscious was working, trying to draw him into the light. But something was wrong was wrong with the light. _Why is it so... shimmery? Distorted._

It was so much easier to go back... back into the darkness... deeper in.

 _Wait- No!_

Ripples bounced off of John Watson like a shiver. A white hand stretched out... and _grabbed_ his sinking arm.

 _Pull_

 ** _PULL_**

Cold, cold air, surrounded John, bombarding him from all sides.

No.. something is wrong..

 _CAN'T BREATHE._

John felt something warm touch his lips- and breathe air back into his soggy lungs. Nothing happened.

 _A second time._

 _A third._

He felt a pounding- hard, so HARD.

GET IT OUT. His subconscious screamed.

A spew of water waterfalled out of John's mouth and straight into the (already leaky) eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Aw John! That's bloody disgusting!"

And John woke up.


	35. Tardis

**A/N** **Yes I know, but this is a special one! Little bit of Doctor Who, as an extra special chapter for # 35 :)**

 **Tardis**

 _noun-_

 **1**. a time machine.

 **2**. a building or container that is larger inside than it appears to be from outside.

* * *

"John! I need your help!" Sherlock called.

The man tapped his foot impatiently, his brain playing at odds with itself.

"John!" He called again.

"Can't you just- oh what is it Sherlock?" came the very annoyed response.

"Can you join me in the sitting room? If you please."

The perturbed Doctor came stomping down the stair, and opened the door slowly, looking quite dangerous.

"I have been upstairs for _twenty_ minutes. Can't you let me have a nap in peace!"

"Sorry John," Sherlock said, (not sounding sorry at all) "I need your help. Very, very desperately."

Sherlock paced incessantly, working himself into a frenzy. He threw his hands up into the air after minutes of puzzling with no result.

He saw John out of the corner of his eye, seated in his armchair.

"What are you doing there? You were just standing- by the door..."

"Oh yeah, I was. Ten minutes ago. You really have a gift for tuning out any voice but your own, don't you?"

"Oh. Uh, ah _Mind palace."_ Sherlock said, tapping his temple like that just summed up all the eccentrics of Sherlock Holmes.

 _Cue the eye roll._

" _Any_ how..." The detective drawled. "Words."

"Pardon?"

"Give me words John! I need words, the strangest, least commonly used, the absolute most appalling, words!" Said he.

Sherlock sat down, opposite of his sleepy flatmate. John's eyebrows furrowed as he thought.

"Oh _come_ on John! I need fresh input-"

Sherlock punctuated this by throwing the plush Union jack, at the _Oh so irritating_ doctor. John scowled, and threw the pillow right back. He achieved hitting the 'man-child' straight in the nose.

"I'm thinking!"

"Think faster.." Sherlock grumbled.

"What's the most bizarre word you have _ever_ heard?"

John's face cleared. "Oh, that's an easy one. Tardis."

"..."

"A what?"

"A. T-a-r-d-i-s," John smiled, pleased that he had stumped the brilliant detective.

"That's a made-up word."

"Is not!"

"There are two definitions of a Tardis. Wanna hear 'em?" John said.

"... Fine."

"It can be either, a time machine, or a building or container that is bigger on the inside than on the outside."

"That's ridiculous. Why would there be a word for something that doesn't exist?" Sherlock scoffed.

 ** _Vworp Vworp Vworp_**

Both men rose to their feet.

"What in blazes is that?" John said alarmed.

Sherlock held a finger to his lips.

"It seems to be coming..." his eyes rose to the ceiling, "From your room."

 ** _THUNK_**

John jumped. Both he and Sherlock stood stock still, as the heard a creaking noise above their heads.

"Well then!" A male voice exclaimed.

John opened his mouth to yell, but Sherlock shushed him.

"This is where the console triangulated the signal, Amy. But it seems to be just an empty room. _How peculiar."_ The voice said.

The two men listened as two steps of footsteps walked around above them for a minute or two.

"I guess it was a mistake." The man said.

John could picture him in his head, shrugging to whoever was this Amy person.

"We should head on to The Panala beaches then."

"But Doctor," A female voice asked. "What did the signal say?"

"Tardis." The 'Doctor' said simply.

The sound of a door shutting followed, and the constant

 _ **Vworp Vworp Vworp**_

John's eye widened, and he dashed up the steps.

"They're gone, Sherlock!" He yelled from upstairs.

Sherlock sat back slowly in his chair, raising his fingers into a steeple, and the thought struck him that some things might be better left well enough alone.


	36. Karaoke

**Karaoke**

 _noun-_

 _a form of entertainment, offered typically by bars and clubs, in which people take turns singing popular songs into a microphone over prerecorded backing tracks._

* * *

All the color in John Watson's face drained away. White as a sheet; he watched his friend, Sherlock Holmes, mount the steps up to the raised stage in front of him. The room around them was silent, devoid of all voices.

The annual Scotland Yard convention had been struck dumb when Sherlock had volunteered for the karaoke stand. John looked on as his friend took the 'walk of death'. Sherlock cleared his throat and tapped the microphone.

Everyone cringed as the high pitch ringing filled their ears.

"Oh, my apologizes." Sherlock rumbled sheepishly.

He stood swaying for a moment. In all honesty, he looked just as surprised at his boldness as everyone else.

The DJ tapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Wha' song mate?"

Color filled Sherlock's cheeks. "Er... Bohemian Rhapsody please."

"Sure thing." The DJ smiled. "You've got the honey glow in your cheeks."

Sherlock blushed even more and made eye contact with John, who rolled his eyes. Sherlock's gaze swept over the rest of John's table, the smirking Anderson, the grinning Sally Donovan, and Lestrade who was shielding his eyes.

As the words loaded on the bright, little screen in front of him, Sherlock really started regretting his lapse in judgement.

 _Can't go back, they'll call you a coward._

 _Go forward, and they'll call you a freak._

 _John doesn't think you are a freak._

And Sherlock found that he didn't care anymore. He opened his mouth and started to _sing._


	37. Dancing

**Dancing**

 _verb-_

 _move rhythmically to music, typically following a set sequence of steps_

* * *

John stood stiff as a board under Sherlock's appraising eye. The detective circled John like a hawk hunting its prey.

"Can I move yet?" John said through clenched teeth.

"No- _pe_."

Sherlock adjusted John's pose and looked on as John's raised arm started to quiver. He nodded and backed away.

"You are ready to try it again," Sherlock said and picked up his violin. He started playing and directed John to start dancing. John grimaced and rotated in place.

"No, no, no you're doing it wrong!" Sherlock scowled, making his violin screech in protest.

" _Remember what I told you."_

"Sherlock, I think I'm just not cut out for this."

Sherlock knocked John on the shoulder, "Nonsense! Anyone can dance. Well... almost anyone."

John sighed, and sat dejectedly into his armchair.

"John."

"Hmph?"

"You can do it you know. It was just as hard for me when I was learning." Sherlock said.

"Really? The great Sherlock Holmes struggled with something?" John scoffed.

Sherlock was quite for a moment. "Yup."

John looked at Sherlock for a long moment.

"Alright...I'll try again."


	38. Lost

**Lost**

 _adjective-_

 _unable to find one's way; not knowing one's whereabouts._

* * *

John Watson spun around, looking for the ends of Sherlock's coat that had just disappeared around a corner.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

John had NO idea where he was, the high looming brick walls seemed to curl in like a clenching fist. John reached his hand into his pocket for his phone but snatched at empty air. He grimaced as he remembered his phone being drowned in the river that the duo had had to wade through earlier that day.

John recalled how Sherlock had been ecstatic upon learning the ' _Runner'_ was exhibiting his skills in London. Of all the clever criminals it had to be a one that could run at an Olympic speed.

' _I mean- WOW.'_ John had said when first seeing the nasty bugger run parallel with traffic, escaping their trap with ease. Military trained, John was still in semi-good shape. But after ten minutes of chasing the _Runner_ , anybody would be winded.

Sherlock Holmes, however, John wasn't sure if he was even human. Sprinting along after the _Runner_ , arms pumping, legs a-blur, he never seemed to stop.

John jogged along, looking for any sign of the detective, taking turn after turn. Getting himself deeper and deeper into unknown territory. He had to keep moving, the _Runner_ and Sherlock were getting further away ever second he wasted.

John gasped for breath and bent over double, when he just couldn't stand it anymore. Everything around him was dark. Dark sky, dark windows, dark walls. All John could ascertain was that he was in a gloomy alleyway, far, far away from home.

A little voice in the back of his head whispered, _"Face it. You are lost."_ (It sounded uncannily like Sherlock)

John leaned up against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye.. he noticed a lone figure slowly walking towards him. And another approaching from his other side, cutting any escape off. John's breath hitched in his throat as he realized he would have to fight his way out. Taking a deep breath, he turned ready to run.

He heard the sound of a window being shoved open, floors above him. He looked up.

"John, what are you doing done there! Come on the _Runner_ is getting away!" Sherlock called down, grinning.

John laughed in relief as Sherlock threw down a rope. John looked at the approaching pair and was doubly happy to see they had stopped.

"Hurry up John!"


	39. Slumber

**Slumber**

 _verb-_

 _sleep._

* * *

John sat Sherlock down at the kitchen table, under threat of no laptop for a week, for a reasonable Sunday breakfast.

"You can't just _switch off_ the internet John.," Sherlock whined.

"Oh yes, I can." John countered. "IF you don't finish those eggs that I slaved over to YOUR specifications."

Sherlock frowned and continued to sluggishly push his eggs around his plate. He picked up his cuppa tea and eyed John's own. John followed his gaze.

"Thank you for making me tea by the way. Very... thoughtful of you." John said, suspiciously.

Sherlock nodded and preceded to shovel eggs into his mouth at lightning speed. He followed it by draining John's glass of orange juice.

"Mmmph. Well, at least you're eating.." John mumbled as he picked up his tea cup unknowingly. He raised it to his mouth, and drank deeply, as Sherlock watched.

Sherlock grinned. He picked up his plate and scraped the remains into the trash can. John opened his mouth to protest, but he suddenly found his eyelids to be quite.. _heavy..._

"Wha'- Sher... di' yo-.. dru-g me?" John slurred.

"Nighty Night, John," Sherlock said, patting John on the shoulder, as he struggled to stay awake. "Couldn't have you shuttin' the internet off."

* * *

John woke hours later, still slumped in the wooden kitchen chair. His eyes were immediately drawn to the furry blanket draped over him, and a plate of fresh eggs steaming before him.


	40. Light Bulb

**Lightbulb**

 _noun-_

 _a glass bulb inserted into a lamp or a socket in a ceiling, that provides light by passing an electric current through a filament or a pocket of inert gas._

* * *

 _POP_

Sherlock and John both looked up, as the light-bulb over head flickered out, and shattered. Glass rained down as the two were submerged in partial darkness. John let out a soft " _Oh._ " of surprise, while Sherlock merely flicked the lamp on, and continued working.

John stood, deciding Sherlock sure wasn't going to sweep up the pile of glass. He made to go into the kitchen-

"Wait, John," Sherlock said calmly.

John turned and faced his flatmate, who wouldn't look him in the eye.

"You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

Sherlock lowered his head further toward his computer. "You might want to step back from that lamp." He muttered.

 _POP_

 _POP_

 _POP_

 _POP_

Glass explosions rang all through out 221B. John jumped as glass from the lamp spewed out in all directions. Sherlock was shielded behind his armchair... unfortunately. As all lights had been extinguished, all John could see now was the illuminated square from Sherlock's computer, and it's owner's guilty face.

"Did any get you? I didn't think that was going to happen.." He rumbled.

John stood perfectly still, trying to get over the shock of what just happened. Luckily for Sherlock his utter confusion outweighed his exasperation. At the moment. As Sherlock's words passed through to his brain, he took stock and was surprised to see his arm bleeding slightly. He inspected the cut right below his elbow and wondered why it didn't sting. Sherlock must have seen his confused expression as he prodded it,

"You must have a high pain tolerance. From getting shot and the like." Sherlock said. He paused. "I'm sorry. That was not supposed to happen."

"Oh, I'm fine," John said. "But how in the world did you do that? Oh, and by the way, YOU are paying for new bulbs."

Sherlock chuckled softly, the quietness of the darkened flat was causing both men to subconsciously whisper.

"I can give you my card?.."

"Oh no. Guess what Sherlock, you break it, you have to go out and buy it." John said.

He started to root around in the desk for a light, as Sherlock continued.

"Earlier today I overloaded the power circuits for the flat, and put it on a timer," Sherlock checked his watch. "For three minutes ago. I was interested in the upflux in the power coupling and how that would affect that outage of power when connected to-"

"Right. Sounds fascinating." John interrupted. He pulled out a glow-stick and waved it around in triumph. "Ah ha!"

"Now you," John said, waving the green glow-stick in Sherlock's face. "You are going to put down that computer right now, and go buy fresh lightbulbs. Or so help me, I WILL throw out that month old pig's brain."

Sherlock knew it this was not a battle he could win. Groaning spectacularly, he drug himself out of his comfy armchair and went to retrieve his Belstaff coat.

 **A/N I have only ten days until school starts, so if you want me to do a specific word, now is the time to ask for it ;) And thank you SO much to all the lovely people who have been nice enough to review my stories! Sadly it's almost over :(**


	41. Amnesia

**Amnesia**

 _noun-_

 _a partial or total loss of memory._

* * *

"John?" Sherlock rasps immediately as his eyes open.

Sherlock is answered by a rasping snore. Eyes fluttering, he finds John asleep, half leaning on his hospital bed with his face lightly touching Sherlock's right hand. Sherlock's mind rewound; _Wait, hospital bed?!_

The beeps of medical machines finally penetrated his foggy brain. Sherlock was laying in an unfamiliar room with sickly yellow wallpaper. As far as he could see, his bed, an armchair, and a small stand were the only furniture occupying the sparse cubicle. Sherlock blinked slowly. How had he got here? He tried to rewind- _Ow,_ but it cut off. This isn't right. Why- can't I think...

Sherlock tested various parts of his body searching for pain.

 _A wiggle of his toes- no spinal injury._

 _Left hand- fine._

 _Right hand..._ Sherlock gently moved his hand out from under John's face. He snuffled a bit but continued snoring.

 _Right hand- a bandage on the forefinger, and middle finger. Possible breakage._

 _Head-_

"Arghh.." Sherlock moaned softly.

His head was a bit not fine. Sherlock could here his heart monitor picking up as his head throbbed in pain. He shut his eyes tightly and counted down from ten.

10... 9... 8... 7... 6...

"Sh'lock...no..." John mumbled. In his sleep, he started shifting toward his left and slipped down the side of the bed.

Sherlock saw what was happening too late.

"Joh-"

"Ooof," John fell straight onto the floor, his chair sliding out behind him.

He sat up a moment later, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and looking highly incredulous. He had a red hand mark on one side of his face, making it look like he was two-toned.

He got to his feet creakily and stretched his bunched up muscles. He still hadn't noticed Sherlock staring keenly at him. John retrieved his chair and sat down in his original spot.

He covered his face with his hands and sighed. Sherlock's muddled brain guessed by John's rumpled clothing that he had been here quite a while. Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, his heart monitor started thrumming happily. John's head shot up, and he smiled.

"Afternoon sleeping beauty," John laughed.

Sherlock's brows furrowed. What day was it? Why couldn't he remember? It all seemed just behind a closed door, with held from his mind palace.

"John." Sherlock croaked. "W-water."

John leaped up, and practically flew over to the stand, snatching a half filled glass. Sherlock opened his parched lips. John carefully slid his hand under Sherlock's bandage turban and poured some of the refreshing liquid into Sherlock's mouth. John dribbled a bit onto Sherlock's chin, earning him a glare. However, he ignored it, and gently swiped the droplets away with his sleeve. Sherlock stared at him, confused at his motherly actions.

"So. Feeling better?" John asked, after an awkward pause.

Sherlock continued gazing at John, trying to muster the energy to deduce but found none. Not even in back-up storage.

"Why am I 'ere?" He rasped.

John' eyebrows rose. "You don't remember?"

Sherlock gave a minute shake of his head and instantly regretted it. He had to blink several times to get the many Johns realigned into one. John looked very worried now. He set his jaw, looking as though he had to brace himself, and asked

"What is the last thing you can remember?"

Sherlock considered the question, tumbled the words around in his mind. He tried to push 'remember' over, but it was just too big and bulky, it took up TO MUCH space. Sherlock realized John was waving his hand in front of his face, "Hey, are you still with us?"

John was glad to see Sherlock's eyes refocus, but his gladness evaporated as Sherlock mumbled,

"The American terror case."

Sherlock watched John's reaction carefully. If the tables had been turned, he knew that he probably wouldn't tell John the truth. Fortunately, John is the one to always give you cold hard facts.

"That was over two weeks ago." John monotoned.

No. That can't be right.

John is wrong, why is John lying, why is it so foggy, lying, remember, can't think, CAN'T.

"Sherlock!" John cried, as the heart monitor accelerated to way over normal.

 _Overload. Overload. Shut down imminent._

"Shh, shh it's okay. Please just think, you know what's rational. You are perfectly safe. You're alright." John crooned.

Sherlock felt something wet leak out of his eye. It tickled a little as it followed a path down his cheek. John reached over and wiped the foreign wetness away. He smiled softly at him.

"See? Your just fine. Just relax."

The insistent beeping slowed down to a steady thrum. Sherlock took deep breaths ignoring the pain of an obviously bruised rib. He needed to get himself under control. He could not cry. Not now, not now, please...

John bent closer towards Sherlock, acting as though he was adjusting his bandages.

"Listen to me, I know you don't remember," he whispered. "But you are in some trouble. You did something bad, and you got hurt. You're being watched."

John shifted his eyes to the far corner of the room, where a shiny camera was trained on them. Sherlock was shocked to notice it. How had he not seen that?

"I'm not supposed to be here, but Mycroft allowed me. If they knew you don't remember you'd be in a serious... predicament. I can't tell you everything just now, but I'll try to sum it up-"

John cut off as the door suddenly swung open. Three men in tailored suits stepped in, they loomed threateningly.

"Your time is up Dr. Watson." The one with a crop of stringy hair announced.

John glanced at Sherlock stricken. "I demand to talk to Mycroft Holmes." He said facing the men.

The men stepped forward in sync. As if they already knew the room's extra occupant would not want to leave willingly. Sherlock's heart monitor pinged furiously as the men latched their huge hands onto John's forearms, and dragged him towards the door. John struggled, his panicked eyes meeting Sherlock's.

"Stay calm Sherlock!" He yelled as the men finally pushed him out of the door.

"John!" Sherlock yelled.


	42. Absence

**Absence**

 _noun-_

 _the state of being away from a place or person._

* * *

Sherlock woke up.

It was Tuesday morning, a comfortable 26 degrees Celsius outside, and a bird was singing. But, John was gone. Sherlock rolled back into his pillows when he realized all these facts.

No reason to get up then. No cases, nothing to do, no John. Why can't people just murder each other already...

Hours seemed to pass. By the time Sherlock emerged from the dining hall of his Mind Palace, the sun had noticeably changed positions outside his window.

Sherlock was confused for a moment, unsure as to why he had been kicked out of his movie re-run. In answer to his question, his stomach rumbled rambunctiously.

Sherlock stalked into the kitchen. Seeking any sustenance at all, he rifled through the cupboards, upended the freezer, and decimated the pantry. Finally, after searching he opened the fridge. He already knew there couldn't be food in there, because before John left he had emptied the fridge because 'apparently' Sherlock's mold experiment had 'contaminated' the rest of the items.

To Sherlock's surprise, a fresh ham and cheese sandwich sat ready on a plate in the middle of the fridge. Judging by the slight condensation forming on the crust, it was little over half a day old, meaning John must have made it for him before he left. As Sherlock picked up the plate, he spotted a post-it note on the opposite side of it.

 _You're welcome. I gave a weeks worth to Mrs. Hudson to send up. Please find yourself something useful to do so you don't blow up the street before I get back. JW_


	43. Shot

**Shot**

 _noun-_

 _the firing of a gun or cannon._

* * *

John looked into the barrel of the gun, refusing his instincts to run away. The hands clutching the gun were shaking but didn't waver in their aim; right between John Watson's eyes. The hands were sweating profusely, an uncommon occurrence to their owner. John Watson was perfectly calm, staring death in the face.

"Please. Just put the gun down." He said slowly. "There is no need to shoot."

"I have to." The finger on the trigger started to tighten.

"No. You don't." John took a step forward.

"Stop."

John stepped forward again. He slowly raised his hands up in a calming gesture.

"Stop, I-I'll shoot.."

The man with the gun started to tremble, his trigger finger becoming jumpy. John took a further step-

"STOP!"

He stopped. A sudden expression of fear flashed across his face, but it was gone in a moment. If John Watson was anything, he was not a coward. If this was his time to die, then he would accept it. John backed up and spread his arms.

"Shoot." He said.

The man couldn't steady hands, suddenly worried he would drop the gun.

"If anyone should kill me, I would want it to be you," John said, his voice wavering slightly.

A strangled cry escaped the man with the gun, a half sob, and laugh. John's composure was leaking. You can only stand so long knowing you could die at any moment. Tears started running down John's face.

"Shoot!" He repeated.

The man flexed his fingers.

"Do it, do it , do it please!" John sobbed. "SHOOT!"

The man pulled the trigger.

John Watson fell like an unloved plaything. It was silent, too silent without John's cries. Sherlock Holmes knelt down beside John's broken body and cried.

And he woke up.


	44. Peppers

**Peppers**

 _noun-_

 _a pungent, hot-tasting powder prepared from dried and ground peppercorns, commonly used as a spice or condiment to flavor food._

* * *

John had kept putting it off, but Mrs. Hudson had convinced him that it might comfort him. So, John was up in Sherlock's cold empty feeling room, looking through all their old photographs.

After a particularly painful one of the two of them standing in front of St. Barts ( _Right in front of where he fell)_ John stumbled across a picture from his first April Fools Day at Baker Street. John smiled as he looked at Sherlock's sweaty red face, identical to John's own. That had taken a long time to get out of our systems, John recalled. He thought back to that day, and how it had started.

* * *

 _April Fools Day was the worst day of the year, according to Sherlock. Well,_ John thought. _Today will certainly leave a lasting memory._

John chuckled to himself all the way to the grocers, wonderfully happy with his plan. Oh ho ho, Sherlock would be ever so sorry that he had used John for his narcotic drug experiment. It had taken John a while to find a store that sold the pepper he had in mind. The Carolina Reaper was a rare find in London, John bought a bag of seeds, just _perfect_ to sprinkle over a nice omelet.

John came home, just as the sun rose. He took a moment to admire the lovely sunrise, before gaily rushing inside.

"Sherlock!" John called, banging on Sherlock's door. "Breakfast in ten!"

John heard a muffled reply but didn't stick around to chat. He quickly made the two omelets, cheese in Sherlock's and onions in his. John hated cheese with a passion.

John stared at the two identical omelets when they were done, and quickly set them on the table. He lightly sprinkled a handful of seeds onto Sherlock's omelet. He ran to the upstairs to fetch his camera phone, this would definitely be a video for the blog John thought mischievously. When John came back downstairs, he found Sherlock sitting in his spot, his black curls rumpled from sleep.

"Morning," John said, hiding the phone in his pocket. "I made omelets."

"Yes, I can see that," Sherlock said dryly.

John sat in his chair and picked up his fork while Sherlock did the same.

"Bon Appetit," John said.

They both ate a big bite of their omelets. John chewed and chewed. Wait.. he was tasting cheese. That wasn't right, that was not right at all!

John looked down at his omelet and found the fiery seeds crowning the cheesy death trap. John's mouth opened in horror, just as Sherlock's poker face broke, and he started belly laughing. John felt his throat burning, fire, FIRE. It felt as if he had red-hot demons clawing their way up his esophagus.

"Did you think I didn't know what day it was?" Sherlock laughed. "I knew there was a 75 percent chance you would try to trick me into doing something, or in this case, _eating_ something."

John groaned loudly and started panting. Sherlock rolled his eyes and passed over the jug of milk, "Oh go on then. A for effort and all that..."

Through his panting, John managed to mutter, "I-I Gue-essed y-you-u would-d figure m-me.. o-out.. T-that's-s why I-I put t-the seeds-s on both-h."

John managed a pained smile as Sherlock's hands slowly rose to his burning throat. "You.." He choked.

 _That was one crazy April Fools to remember._


	45. Tears

**Tears**

 _noun-_

 _a drop of clear salty liquid secreted from glands in a person's eye when they cry or when the eye is irritated._

* * *

 _Sniff._

 _Sniff._

SNIFF.

"Are you alright over there?" John called from the living room.

"Oh yeah," Sherlock said, tears running down his face. "Just dandy."

He gave the onion a extra vigorous slice, and wiped at his face. This cooking business was just not his strong suit. Plus it was quite irritating to John chuckling at his predicament. The strong fumes wafting up from his pot of... _something_ , combined with the syn-propanethial-S-oxide **(** bloody onions **)** causing his eyes to water, he was just about ready to dump it all out the window.

"Not that much salt!" John said.

Sherlock noticed he had been forcefully upending the salt shaker over his concotion.

"Mmph."

Sherlock sat down at the table, discouraged at his failure. He's not used to being bad at anything, but social interactions. John came over a minute later. He found a clean spoon, and dipped it into the bubbling mass. He sipped at it, his face thoughtful.

"Taste it." He said softly, handing Sherlock the spoon.

 _Hmm. That's not half bad._


	46. Blood

**Blood**

 _noun-_

 _the red liquid that circulates in the arteries and veins of humans and other vertebrate animals, carrying oxygen to and carbon dioxide from the tissues of the body._

* * *

Sherlock breathed. A slow breath of air passed across his lips, falling down with him, to the ground.

Down, down.

The cold cement was not kind to his body as he collided with it. It repelled against him, hurting him. His hands flew of their own accord, stifling the yawning hole in his abdomen. His blood was warm, steaming into the cold London air. Wet, cold, warm, hard.

He breathed.

Face. A face, who's face? Someone kind.

His lips wouldn't work. He couldn't form the cry for help, to make it stop, make it stop, _please._

Warm, not blood against his face. A hand cupping his cheek.

Make it stop.

 _Pain!_

The warm hand stung his face. The comfort had turned to cruel. He cringed away. No more, no more pain, no more warm blood...

The hand was back, gentle once more. The warm mass encircled him, _hugging_ that was it...

Whispers... whispers...

 _I'm sorry_

 _Sherlock_

 _Wake up_

 _come back to me_

 _help is coming_

 _please don't die_

Something wet dripped onto his cheek, _not_ _warm blood_...

His ears filled with sounds. Loud, LOUD sounds. It hurt his ears, no more, no more warm blood.

Foreign hands touched him, not the warm kind hands. NO, no...

They pushed the warm hands away, he cried out. No!

They tried to remove his hands from the warm blood, no, you can't, the blood. He kept crying out, where did the kind face go?

He felt a prick on his neck, and suddenly he was very relaxed. He barely felt it as the foreign hands lifted him _Up..._

Then the warm hands were back, accompanied by the kind face. The kind face looked very sad, it shouldn't be _sad..._

The warm hands stroked his curls, and the kind face buried itself into his chest. He felt the wetness from the kind face's tears. The warm blood didn't hurt so much now, it was no longer soaking him to the bone, cold and warm. He reached out his hand, covered in warm blood, and the warm hands grasped it tightly. Both hands were shaky.

The kind face and the warm hands merged into one person. Sherlock's lips worked now, and they formed his name.

" _John."_


	47. Blog

**Blog**

 _noun-_

 _a regularly updated website or web page, typically one run by an individual or small group, that is written in an informal or conversational style._

* * *

 _"Hello! Welcome to my video chat on my blog. Erm well, all you have to do is type questions into the text box below, and I will see them and reply. So it looks like the first question is from... Mrs. Hudson. One moment, she's still typing. Ok it says,_

 _*Hello dear! Would you mind bringing down the leftover lasagna?*_

 _"... Sure, Mrs. Hudson. You know you could just walk up the steps..._

 _*My hip darling*_

 _"OKAY moving on. Does anyone have a question about the blog?... Alright, an anonymous is typing..._

 _*I need my phone can you bring it to me? SH*_

 _"NO Sherlock! I am literally ten feet away! Ahem. Okay, ah thank you, Greg! At least yours will perfectly reasonable question..."_

 _*Hello John, could you pop down to the yard soon? I have something for Sherlock to see.*_

 _"ALRIGHTY. No more questions that are no related to, A. my blog, B. the cases, C.-"_

 _"_ Have you bored them out of their minds yet John?"

 _"Go away Sherlock! Busy here!"_

 _*In fact, it is quite boring watching this. MH*_

 _"... Then go away Mycroft."_

"You don't seem to have a whole lot of people asking questions."

 _"Yes, I know Captain Obvious."_

"Perhaps it would help if I could answer questions too?"

 _"Argh. Sure why not! You should take over my blog too-"_

 _*No dear, I love your blog*_

" _Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."_

 _"Okay so does anyone have any questions for Sherlock?"_

 _*Why did the victim in the crucible cow case escape justice? M. Hartland*_

 _*What has been your most difficult case so far? H. Granger*_

 _*Do like pie? Anonymous*_

 _*Do you like Doctor Who? Fangirlsunited*_

 _*How come your not yet dead? M*_

 _*Where did you find the lost emerald of Buktar? Dame Liasta*_

 _*How come your so AMAZING? I3Sherlock*_

 _*Do you know any confidential secrets about America? B. Obama*_

 _*Have you ever killed anybody? Beelord*_

 _*Do you have any juicy secrets? Kitty Riley*_

 _*Do you believe in magic? RAB*_

 _*Do you dress up in a bee costume at night, and go to The Thames and dance on the south side? Cause it looks a lot like you. G. Lestrade*_

 _*I have a bad thumb. ENGINEER*_

 _*I have a case for you. Gloria Scott*_

 _*Are you any good at shooting? Moran*_

 _*If you are available, there have been strange occurrences happening at the palace. Please contact me. Her Majesty, The Queen*_

"Wow."

 _"Um. I'm afraid my computer has overloaded. We will get to your questions at a later date, and um. God save The Queen. Night everyone, John Watson signing off."_

 **A/N Sorry If this chapter was a little hard to read! It's supposed to be a live chat on John's blog, where he answers questions live. And of course, Sherlock had to join in. If you got confused here are the people=**

 _This font_ = comments

This font is Sherlock

 _This font is John_


	48. Migraine

**Migraine**

 _noun-_

 _a recurrent throbbing headache that typically affects one side of the head and is often accompanied by nausea and disturbed vision._

* * *

"Sherlock? Are you alright?'

"Ehm."

"You look kinda pale."

"Well, I can't very well control the color of my skin, no can I?" Sherlock snapped.

"Fine then." John huffed.

They sat in touchy silence for a minute.

"Sorry," Sherlock muttered.

"Wha'?"

"Sorry, I snapped at you."

"Okay, now I'm really worried."

Sherlock groaned and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples.

"Argh- I just have a really bad headache, Okay?"

"I can give you something for that."

"Anything. Please."

 **A/N hey everyone, sorry this one is so short. I have a really bad headache myself and I can't concentrate. Tomorrows will be longer.**


	49. Hitman (Part 1)

**Hitman**

 _noun-_

 _a person who is paid to kill someone, especially for a criminal or political organization._

* * *

Baker street. What a stereotypical excuse for a drive. All the houses lined up in a row, flower boxes were perched on window sills and the perfect outcrop for a sniper. How convenient.

Of course, Mister Moriarty had known that when he sent me here. He had this all planned out a long, long time ago. It was time for Sherlock Holmes to die. Unfortunately, it was taking him a long time to get home. I have been staring through my scope, and into 221B for over 2 hours. You would think that the brilliant Sherlock Holmes would've been smart enough to close his blinds. But apparently not.

Mister Moriarty had set up a trap for the blond Doctor so he wouldn't get in the way. If I recall correctly, one of our men was supposed to have led him away from Sherlock an hour ago. He should have been murdered by now. Can't leave any loose ends.

The people living under his perch had been surprisingly easy to pay off. It seems like Mister Holmes was not an enjoyable neighbor.

The taxies were scuttling around below me like little black beetles. Finally! A taxi pulled over to the curb in front of the target's house. Out climbed the lanky detective. His black Belstaff was billowing behind him as he swept into his flat. Better kill him when he's inside.

Mister Moriarty had made sure the landlady was not available. She was a little engaged at the moment. I hoisted my rifle into place, the happy feeling I get when I'm about to kill was taking hold. The thrill of the shot, the intensity of the getaway, now that was a way to live. Adrenaline was already coursing through my veins, as I found the unsuspecting fool in my aim.

In retrospect, I really should have paid more attention to the surrounding area. I didn't notice when another cab pulled up to 221B, and the VERY much alive Doctor had appeared.

I cocked my rifle and followed Mister Holmes with my eyes. He sat down in his armchair, his back to the window. This was just too easy! I was in the process of taking the shot, when the complete swine John Watson, came barreling in. I pulled the trigger just as Doctor Watson tackled Mister Holmes to the ground.

I was angry. Very angry. Both of the men were now below my sight and I had blown my cover. Already people were stopping and looking up at my rooftop. Time for my exit then.

Mister Moriarty was going to be very mad.


	50. Ending? (Part 2)

**Ending**

 _noun-_

 _an end or final part of something, especially a period of time, an activity, or a book or movie._

* * *

Sherlock gasped, a delayed reaction indeed, but one is not usually expecting to get thrown onto a fireplace. Sherlock touched his forehead, and his fingers came away sticky. He had barely noticed the bullet shattering the window as John's face had appeared. _John._

"John Watson, you are brilliant! Blazes, how did you know-"

Sherlock eyes located John's still body, lying across his armchair. He froze.

"John?..."

John's body was trembling. Sherlock almost laughed with relief and ran to his friend.

"John the bullet must have just grazed you." He said.

Sherlock gently rolled him over, expecting John to agree with him, and they would be happy about having yet another narrow escape.

Sherlock's smile slid off his face like running water. He recoiled from John and cried out. A small hole, seemingly insignificant, was bubbling through John's favorite jumper. Red flowed freely, covering the soft knitted pattern. The wound was right above his carotid artery, Sherlock's stunned brain noted. It was bleeding him dry.

No. Sherlock was not good with dying people. The terror was over when they were dead. _Nothing to fear from the dead,_ Mycroft always said. _Only from the living._

John's eyes were rolling in his head while his body was seized in a sudden seizure. John cried out in the most pitiful noise known to mankind, the sound of the dying.

"No, no, no, John, John stop it! Stop it right now!"

Sherlock ran to him, nothing not even the denial, could keep him away.

 _This is not happening, this is not happening._ Pounded the mantra inside his head.

John can't be dying, he should be in his chair drinking tea. Or helping Sherlock. Saying how brilliant he was.

Sherlock's hands were shaking, as they pressed down into John's chest. Pushing, as if he could push all this blood back into him, the bullet right back out of him.

 _Minutes at most._

"No, STOP IT!" Sherlock screamed.

Sherlock felt an unfamiliar sensation, tears were flowing freely on his face. Sherlock laughed through his tears.

"Look, look John I'm crying. I never cry."

"Does that make me special?" John whispered.

Sherlock jolted in surprise and found John's eyes were focused on him. Sherlock's face cracked.

"Yes, John. That makes you v-very special. The best there is." He sobbed.

John smiled. A small bubble of blood formed, and popped on the edge of his lip.

"Sherlock."

"Y-yes John?"

"I.. I don't want to die."

Sherlock cupped John's quivering face in his red-soaked hand.

"Shh. Shh now."

John's face broke, "Sherlock, Sherlock it _hurts._ " He whimpered.

"I know John. I know. You have to be strong alright? Don't be afraid. You were a soldier." Sherlock said.

"I-I was a Doctor." John choked.

"You had bad days."

John started to laugh but yelled as his body spasmed. Sherlock could feel John's heart getting weaker under his fingertips.

"Listen, listen John." Sherlock patted his cheek. "You were the most amazing person I had the privilege of knowing. You changed my life in so many ways, and you saved it. I became a better man because of you. I probably would have been dead in a ditch somewhere if I had never met you."

"Was I good?" John mumbled.

"The best. You were brilliant John. Bloody brilliant."

A true, genuine smile lit up John Watson's face for the last time. He breathed his last, and Sherlock watched as the life trickled out of his eyes.

John Watson was dead.

"John!"

Sherlock hugged his limp body to his chest, cradling John's head with his hands. He wept as he realized he would never see that smile again.

 _"It was worth a wound- it was worth many wounds- to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great brain."_

 _Arthur Conan Doyle- The Adventure of the Three Garridebs_


	51. Grief (Part 3)

**Grief**

 _noun-_

 _deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone's death._

* * *

Mrs. Hudson came home to find Baker Street eerily silent. She stepped into the foyer, still shaking from her recent encounter. She clutched her pepper spray tightly in hand, sensing that something was not quite right.

She had a flash of remembrance to the day before she was given the pepper spray. She had just come back from the gossip luncheon with Mrs. Turner (she had been so excited to tell tales of her boys) when she walked in the door and had been seized by men; who she found out later, we rogue CIA agents. asking about Sherlock's camera phone of all things.

After the whole fiasco was over the next day, she had found a container of pepper spray sitting on her kitchen table with a bow and the note. It said only "SH". It was typical Sherlock.

She had carried her gift with her ever since. and thank God she did, otherwise she would probably be lying bloody in a ditch somewhere right now.

Unfortunately, she had misplaced her newly bought bag of Jammie Dodgers on the way to the police station after a man had attacked her as she left the supermarket over an hour ago.

"Sherlock?" she called out softly.

No reply answered her. She knew her boys were not out because John would've dragged Sherlock back home to see The Queen's Speech this afternoon. Mrs. Hudson took a step forward and stopped. Instead of the sounds of Bach, or arguments, or deductions, Mrs. Hudson's well-tuned ears picked up the sound of soft crying.

Not crying for attention, not the crying of a child, but the sounds of grief. This was the sound of intense, uncontainable grief. Mrs. Hudson's heart twinged as she recognizes the sound, it was what she to had felt when she lost her parents long ago.

Something is terrible, terribly wrong.

"Oh no, no, no, no."

Resolutely, (ignoring the pain in her hip) she ran up the stairs yelling, "Sherlock? John?"

The quiet sobbing stopped as Mrs. Hudson flung open the door. She barely registered the shattered window, or the overturned chair, or a large stain of blood covering John's chair and the floor. All she could see was Sherlock's wide, tear-filled eyes. He was leaning up against John's chair hugging a red jumper to his chest.

A small voice whispered in her brain, John doesn't own any red jumpers… Mrs. Hudson caught a glimpse of oatmeal colored fabric in Sherlock's bundle, and she realized.

John's favorite jumper was soaked in dried blood.

Only a second had passed as Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway. Sherlock opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and he sat gaping like a gutted fish. His face crumpled, and he buried his face into the untarnished bit of the jumper.

A voice coughed behind her, and Mrs. Hudson spun around.

"Mrs. Hudson, " Mycroft rumbled. She took a step back, not wanting to hear…

"John Watson has been murdered."

oOo

"Oh dear lord," Mycroft exclaimed. "Sher-"

Sherlock glanced up, not caring in the slightest what his brother needed, but the thump following demanded his attention. Mrs. Hudson had fainted into Mycroft, and he was clutching at her elbows with a look of revulsion on his face. Sherlock stood, a feeling of coldness gripping him.

He took two long strides and picked his landlady off of Mycroft. He cradled her head gently on his shoulder and laid her on the couch. Sherlock softly wiped a tear from her wrinkled cheek. He turned to face his brother, who was looking a bit bashful.

Sherlock reached out to the familiar coldness, letting it fill him, and chase away all that blood... John... Sherlock gave his head a slight shake and put on his mask. The one only John had been able to see through.

"Tell me." He said quietly.

Mycroft shifted; uncomfortable for once in his life. Sherlock could practically see the thoughts scampering through his brain. Pity won out. Mycroft's face formed into that of a mourner at a funeral.

"If," -Sherlock opened his mouth to protest- "Yes IF, I tell you, you have to promise me, no rash decisions will be made."

Sherlock could feel the cold tendrils creeping into his chest again, ready to squeeze his heart dry. He pushed it down and replaced it with a close substitute. Rage.

Sherlock advanced on his brother, eyes flashing like steel. However, before Sherlock could make contact, Mycroft held up his signature umbrella; pointed at Sherlock's heart. He stopped, -umbrella length away- and leered at his brother. Mycroft's face remained perfectly blank.

"It was Moran." He said stoically.

Sherlock froze. _Sebastien Moran, retired sharpshooter of the British army, currently employ of Jim Moriarty._

"As you know, I have surveillance all over Baker Street. Exactly fifty-seven minutes ago, my assistant alerted me to a man sitting on the roof of crossing 221B. He had a rifle with a scope, and was supposed to look in through the window," he gestured at the broken window. " We called you with no response than quickly dispatched my guard. But as you know, we arrived too late. There's been no sighting of Moran. It was clear he was sent to assassinate you. Additionally, the way that John and Mrs. Hudson were detained, it must have been the intent to create three murders."

Sherlock staggered, falling into his armchair. He glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who was clearly safe and sound.

"They failed obviously," Mycroft added.

Sherlock's blank eyes met Mycroft's. " No," He said.

"Sorry?"

"They did not fail. John is d- gone..."

An expression of concern contaminated Mycroft's facade.

"They failed in murdering John and Mrs. Hudson initially. This attack was clearly aimed at everyone you... love. I personally would like to know how John escaped his would-be murderer."

Sherlock's eyes became unfocused, and he stared at the wall.

"I thought he was going out with Lestrade... We had been having a disagreement about the case with the hung little girl. I thought that it was the parents that did it, but John couldn't believe that the parents could commit such an act. I told him he was being illogical, and he left. Then it turned out, he was right." Sherlock shook his head with a small smile.

A groan for Mrs. Hudson interrupted their conversation. She set up slowly, rubbing her head. "Oh, hello dears, I-I must've dropped off. I'll… go make some tea…"

She ran out of the room muffling her sobs. Sherlock sighed inwardly.

Well, wasn't today a day of firsts. The first time he cried in years, the first time he felt like he needed a hug, first time a man died in his arms.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock barely kept his voice from trembling.

Mycroft looked at him sadly, reminding Sherlock of so long ago when he had held his dead dog in his arms.

"Yes?" Mycroft prompted.

"Every time I close my eyes all I can see is his. And the blood. So much blood... Mycroft, my heart," Sherlock motioned at his chest. " It hurts. I... I can't…"

Sherlock threw himself out of the chair and started pacing furiously. He skirted around the large stain of blood, and his hand raked through his hair.

"Something is wrong with me Mycroft. I can't think, I can't see anything but John, I can't even tell why you're still standing there."

Mycroft stood as stiff as a board, entirely shell-shocked by his sociopathic sibling's emotions. Sherlock spun around and let out a hoarse, feral cry.

He punched the wall and yelped in pain. Reeling away, he cradled his hand to his chest.

Sherlock looked up at his elder brother, tears of anger and pain in his eyes.

"Why did he have to save my life?"

* * *

Mycroft softly closed the door of 221B behind him. He had never seen Sherlock in such a state. He had left his brother on the stairwell, where he had gone to talk to that landlady of his. Breaking the bad news as Anthea would put it. Mycroft was fairly certain that Sherlock was not about to run off into London, searching out Moran. But you can never be certain with a Holmes.

Mycroft slid into the black car that was waiting at the curb. As he sat, he pondered Sherlock's reaction.

His brother had acted like a broken man. He could not help thinking that possibly he had made a very grave mistake. He took out his cell, glanced up at his driver, and slid the privacy window shut.

"Yes hello? It has gone according to plan so far. No, no he's not out of danger yet. You can't- Listen to me. You have to let this play out, I will keep you fully updated. Er... He seems to be... coping. I will contact you soon, Doctor Watson."

 **A/N Yes I know it isn't summer yet, but I couldn't wait to get back to this story :D Reviews would be extremely welcome (Shoutouts will be given) and I apologize about the not 'Daily' thing, but I will try to do it as often as possible. Welcome back to Daily Occurrences :)))**


	52. Angel (Part 4)

**Angel**

 _noun-_

 _a person of exemplary conduct or virtue._

* * *

"Sir?"

Jim Moriarty jumped; sloshing tea over his Westwood blazer. The air in the room immediately crackled.

"HOW DARE YOU. I specifically said, NOT, to DISTURB ME." Moriarty snarled, rounding on the poor man.

The soldier quaked in his boots, his round face not yet showing signs of adulthood. He backed up past the door-frame, his look of horror fondly reminding Jim of his dear old mum. She had always been so afraid of her son.

"Please Sir, we have eyes on the target." The man muttered.

Moriarty's demeanor instantly changed, a simpering girly expression split his face.

"Oh, my dear man," Moriarty purred. "How fortunate for you."

He dumped the remainder of his Earl Grey tea over the man's head and swept himself out of the parlor. The soldier stood for a moment, letting the hot liquid run down his face, then releasing a shaky breath as Moriarty's footsteps faded away.

 _ **oOo**_

Jim Moriarty strode purposefully through his country home, swiping at his jacket with a handkerchief. He decided that incompetent man would be first on his expendables list.

As he strode into his surveillance room, all thoughts of his guards' uselessness fled his mind. Moriarty basked for a moment in the clicks, and beeps echoing through his network room which rivaled even the great Mycroft Holmes'.

It hurt him how he had to employ ordinary people just to get anything done, but unfortunately, he couldn't be everywhere at once.

A hesitant cough shattered Moriarty's moment of peace. He rolled his eyes spectacularly and sighed. His executive supervisor found himself the center of Moriarty's icy gaze.

"Why is everybody so on EDGE?"

The inhabitants of the room all jumped. Twenty worried eyes circled around to Moriarty. Worry regarding the inevitable explosion of course. The supervisor wrung his hat in his hand anxiously.

Admittedly, Moriarty had been quite unpredictable since Moran's failure, but to be fair, only three of the kitchen staff had disappeared so far.

"...Well? Show me, NOW."

The supervisor jumped into action, pushed an intern aside at the nearest computer, and started typing. He signaled at his assistant; who quickly turned on the projector overhead. Moriarty stood tapping his foot while inspecting his flawless nails. The screen shimmered, and the supervisor's computer screen loaded.

Moriarty stepped forward, a giggle escaped him as the highly anticipated footage buffered onscreen.

Static rippled across the screen for several seconds.

"Sorry Sir," the man said quickly. "Give 'er a mo, She's a live feed."

The projection settled, and a grainy image of a street appeared.

The image could be looked at as a simple view of a London road- clearly looking down from a building as, cabs, and pedestrians all went on their way.

Crosswise from the street, adjacent to a cafe with a bright red awning, was a large, black mahogany door. Moriarty's eyes found the chrome 221B lettering almost instantly.

"Bellissimo!" Moriarty cackled.

"Sir- there is more."

The semi-proud man took a step towards his computer, and with a few strokes of the keys, the camera's direction changed.

The lens was now directly across from the roof of 221B, and clearly huddled against the air duct was a man. Wrapped in a dark blue blanket, with a mop of dark hair poking out, was indisputable a certain consulting detective.

"Do mine eyes deceive me?" Moriarty said.

He was met with silence. None dared to speak up- no one was brave enough volunteer as the subject of praise or even scorn. Nobody could what would come out of this man's mouth next.

"Zoom." Moriarty directed.

 _Tip, tap, tip, tap_.

The screen focused in on Sherlock Holmes' face. He was staring in the general direction of the camera, but obviously unaware of its presence. It had been the most useful thing Moran had accomplished, Moriarty thought. Sherlock Holmes was dressed in formal garb, clearly having escaped from some gathering. An unlit candle sat a few inches in front of him.

"Time?" Moriarty asked.

"He's been there for twenty minutes, Sir."

Moriarty watched as Sherlock uncovered his hands, and held them in front of his face. Even from a distance, the camera could clearly make out the violent tremor in his hands.

"Oh, my sweet little _angel_!" Moriarty cried. "Do you see that? Do you see that!"

He took a step towards the screen, his chest shaking with laughter.

"This is _so wonderful,_ " He spoke to the screen. "Bleed my darling, I want to see you bleed your heart dry."

He turned around to his frozen workers, with a wide cynical smile on his face.

"It seems London's angel has lost its halo."


	53. Rooftop (Part 5)

**Rooftop**

 _noun-_

 _the outer surface of a building's roof._

* * *

An involuntary shiver rattled Sherlock's bones. He drew his wooly blanket closer around him, clenching his hands.

His blasted hands wouldn't stop shaking…

A cold London breeze buffeted him from all sides. Sherlock scooted, so the air duct behind him sheltered him from the worst wind. He eyed the overcast sky, trying to judge whether the gray clouds we're preparing to release their payload. If so, Sherlock decided, you would have to sit through it.

A little rain was worth not having to return to the boiling pot of pity, and sickening tears below. Maybe Mrs. Hudson would work all his escape earlier in the day and bring an umbrella. Best not to get high hopes he thought, with a sigh.

He had extracted a promise to let him know when all the crocodiles have left. Sherlock had encouraged the gathering from the start, completely disregarding Mycroft's warning but it might not be a good idea. He had invited them all himself, searching out old friends and relatives of… John's. He had done it all, hoping that it would help. That if he was surrounded by people who knew John, who felt Sherlock's pain, he would find a fragile sort of peace.

But when the time came, and Baker Street started filling with dark suits, and weeping women, Sherlock was hit with the reality of just how many people John had touched in his life. Ex-soldiers huddled around the sofa, co-workers milled around the kitchen table, acquaintances chatted by the fireplace. The last straw for Sherlock had been Mike Stamford, searching him out - and with a forlorn face, clapping his hands and muttering, " I'm sorry Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't understand why, but that had caused a lump to rise in his throat, and the room suddenly seemed very crowded and small. He escaped to the roof, with a candle and some matches. On his way, he had been stopped by Mrs. Hudson with the knowing look in her eye. She had handed him a blanket and hugged Sherlock tightly.

So he was, hiding away from the mourners below. Reduced to shivering against an air duct.

"It's your own fault," a voice that sounded suspiciously like John's whispered.

"Ah no…" Sherlock buried his head in his blanket. " Not now, please."

Sherlock could practically feel John's sympathetic grimace, and a slap on the back he cursed his brain, having studied John so frequently in the past, he was now anticipating John's every action.

"Stop it…" He moaned clasping his head in his hands.

"You can't just shut your brain off." John pointed out.

A violent tremor shook sherlock's hands, causing him to snarl in frustration. A red flower on a wool jumper bloomed across his vision.

He stood, dumping his blanket onto the concrete.

"Yes, I can." He said the empty roof.

He eyed the ledge, taking a step towards it.

"Sherlock?..." John murmured worriedly.

He just wanted it to go away. The blood was still seeping into the corners of his vision. Sharp tears pricked the corners of his eyes, as the wind whipped his dark curls around his face. He approached the edge.

"Stop it, Sherlock!" John said urgently.

He took in a deep breath and raised up his right foot…

"Sherlock!" John's cry inside his head mingled with a deeper, familiar voice.

Sherlock spun around in shock and saw Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson all jogging over to him.

"What do you think you're doing mate?" Greg asked.

Sherlock glanced at Molly's wide eyes, and at Mrs. Hudson- whose hand had flown to her face in shock.

"I-I was just… I was looking…" Sherlock stammered, gesticulating at the ground below.

Lestrade's silvery eyebrow rose.

"Oh… Alright then…"

Greg Lestrade tread lightly over to the taller man, who appeared to be shrinking by the second.

It was moments like these that reminded Lestrade that Sherlock was really human

"Come on Mate. Let's go inside."

Greg wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulder and guided the shuffling man towards the fire escape.

"Wait, wait." Sherlock tore himself away and strode over to his blanket.

He extracted his small candle and matches from the bundle. Sherlock avoided everybody's eyes as he said,

"It's something my family does when someone dies a wrongful death. Superstitious, preposterous really… but it's supposed to ease the spirit on…"

There was a moment of silence on the roof, whilst London bustled about without a care.

"Well go on then." Mrs. Hudson sniffled.

He knelt and carefully laid the candle on the ground, and extracted a match. Sherlock tried once, twice, to light the match, but his shaking fingers prevented him.

"Shite." He cursed.

Small, warm hands wrapped around his own, keeping them steady enough to strike the match. The flame shimmered and danced, and Sherlock looked up into Molly's sad brown eyes. When their eyes met, Molly let go and backed away. Sherlock tried to smile at her but failed with a grimace.

Sherlock lit the candle's wick, and carefully picked it up, grasping the sides tightly so as not to drop it. He shook out the match with one hand and laid it and the lighted candle on a waist high slab of concrete, which was adjacent to the air duct.

He, of course, was making an exception to the rules, but he didn't tell the others that. You were supposed to place the candle at the spot of death, as a vessel for the soul- _but,_ Sherlock thought, _I'm sure John wouldn't mind if we're a floor above._

Sherlock had been avoiding his flat at all costs for the past four days since John was murdered. he would've left Baker Street altogether if it hadn't been for Mrs. Hudson. he frequently heard her crying every night from his air mattress, which she had kindly allowed him to set up in her office. Sherlock hadn't been able to bring himself to do anything, not even assist Mycroft in the hunt for Moran. He had ignored the many calls from his sibling in favor of hiding away, and counting down the days. In Sherlock's grief filled mind, everything centered around the funeral. He would find Moran as soon as John's body was put to rest. Moran would pay dearly for what he had done. Then… Moriarty.

That thought was what had propelled him out of bed, this cold London morning. The funeral was tomorrow, and Sherlock, mentally prepared or not, would be there.

The candle sputtered out, snapping Sherlock out of his daze. He puzzled for a moment why, as the harsh wind had died down considerably. Then, a large fat raindrop landed on his nose, answering his unasked question for him.

Molly quietly took his hand, while Lestrade grabbed the candle and blanket.

"Let's go warm you up," Molly said softly.

 **Next chapter will be very soon, I've already written most of it. Shoutouts to Melodyofsong526,TrustNoOne182, Percy James Frost, Josette, and Pick me as your beta for all your kind, and encouraging reviews! Thanks! And if anybody is interested, I've created a roleplaying forum called House of Fandom. It's a multi-fandom roleplay, and we still have a ton of characters open, you should come check it out! Happy New year!**


	54. Return (Part 6)

**Return**

 _verb-_

 _come or go back to a place or person._

* * *

Sherlock sat on a step on the staircase up to his flat, phone in hand, and a soft jumper in his lap. Night had finally fallen, and all the guests have left. Molly and George (No, _Greg_ ) had wanted to stay with him, Greg even going as far as to perhaps offer a temporary living arrangement, but he turned their offers down.

For some reason, he couldn't imagine living anywhere but Baker Street. Sherlock could barely remember the short time living here alone. John and Baker Street, they just went together, they made sense. Baker Street without John? It was still home, but it seemed wrong.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to rid himself of the dangerous circle of thoughts littering his brain. His phone vibrated in his hand, startling him.

 **Caller ID:** _Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock declined it in disgust. Mycroft didn't even have the decency to show up to John's memorial, why should he have to listen to him? He tossed his phone on to the next step, and both hands return to the jumper. A thought occurred to Sherlock, and he pulled John's jumper onto his arms, then over his head. He smiled softly as he realized he was right. John's smell of cinnamon and gunpowder flooded his nose, creating vivid mental pictures.

Sherlock's phone rang again, and he skillfully ignored it. John smiled at him with in his mind palace.

Then his phone dinged. And then again. Which was the epitome of unusual? Mycroft almost never stoops so low as to type out his words on a keyboard. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft was obviously out of cake. He picked up his phone, resolving not to respond unless Mycroft was about to die. As he picked it up, it dinged for the third time.

 _Answer your phone, dammit! -MH (1 minute ago)_

 _Moran is coming, you need to run. -MH (30 seconds ago)_

 _I know you are reading this Sherlock Holmes! -MH (10 seconds ago)_

"What in the Queen's name-"

His phone rang again, and this time, he answered it.

"Sherlock? Oh thank god, listen to me- you are under surveillance. my contact in Moriarty's close ranks just informed me that Moran has been tipped off that we were looking for him, and is coming to Baker Street at this moment to hunt you down." Mycroft blurted out in one breath.

"What-" Sherlock started.

"No, please just listen to me for once! the authorities have been alerted, but there is no time, you need to run now!"

Sherlock stood and grabbed his coat, slipping it over John's jumper.

"Moran is doing this against Moriarty's orders. Moriarty had Baker Street on camera the whole time, and he only allowed you to live because he wanted to see you suffer from John's death-"

"Shut up," Sherlock growled into his phone.

Mycroft sighed exasperatedly.

"Sorry! Alright, we can track your phone with GPS and will send reinforcements. Moran is Moriarty's only agent that is skilled enough to get through my network. if he is taken out, you'll be safe."

"It's pretty convenient John died." Sherlock snarled, as he swept himself out of the door.

"What?"

"You said Moriarty was only allowing me to live because he wanted to see me suffer. So if John hadn't saved me, we would both have been murdered."

"Yes… Sherlock, we need to talk-"

"Later," Sherlock said, then ended the call.

He hailed a cab over to his curb, and as a pimply young man poked his face out of the window, he flashed his stolen badge.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. This vehicle is being compounded, for the use of Scotland Yard. A man's life depends on it."

Mr. Wide-eyed pimples hopped right out. Sherlock climbed into the cabbie seat, he glimpsed a speeding car in the rearview mirror. Sherlock quickly analyzed it, silver Maserati, no license plate, tinted windows, thicker than average windows; possibly bullet proof. And heading straight towards him.

Sherlock sped away from the curb, showering the unfortunate cabbie driver in murky slush. The Maserati was in quick pursuit, weaving around traffic expertly. Sherlock's mind palace was in full swing, quickly plotting out a route to draw Moran out of the busy London streets and pedestrians.

Sherlock chuckled as he realized that he was calmer being chased by an assassin, then sitting alone at home.

He considered calling Mycroft back as he drove, but the possibility of a tapped phone seemed more and more likely. Sherlock kept Moran at a constant four cars behind. If he moved up one, so did Sherlock. If Moran and fell backward, he did the same. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't lose Moran completely. There was no telling when he would turn up again, trying to kill Sherlock. Not to mention that this was John's murderer. He was looking forward to a confrontation to say the very least. If Mycroft's lackeys would just show up, Moran would get what he deserved.

For 20 long minutes, there was no sign of police, armed guard, anything.

Maybe this had been Moriarty's plan all along. Or more likely he wanted to protect his disobedient guard dog by stopping Mycroft's forces.

The moon shone down on the lonely country road. Sherlock watched and his mirror as the last car separating him and Moran turned into a private drive.

Sherlock revved the engine, trying to put more space between the cars. There was nothing separating them now. When Sherlock looked behind him next, he noted that Moran had put about 14 meters of space between them. The road turns to gravel, and Sherlock was forced to slow down to 80 km/h. Sherlock eyes flew from the road ahead to Moran, and back.

"Why haven't you done anything?" Sherlock muttered angrily.

A single shot answered his taunt. Sherlock felt the right rear tire blow, and his steering wheel jerked violently out of his hands. He scrambled to get a hold of it, meanwhile, a vicious grading sound reverberated around the cabin as the metal wheel scraped against the gravel. Sherlock leaned frantically, trying to stop the car from-

The cab rolled. Sherlock felt a moment of weightlessness been an intense burning as his world flipped around him. His head whipped to the side, the seat belt cutting into the soft flesh of his neck. The car tilted to a stop, the world still the wrong way up. Sherlock groaned, a haze of a white pain was threatening to drag him down. He blinked several times and the world came back into focus.

Moran. Moran was behind him.

"No,no,no,no…" Sherlock wheezed.

This was not supposed to happen! Moran would be on him in a matter of seconds. Sherlock fumbled for his seatbelt, momentarily forgetting that he was upside down. He cried out in pain as his head hit the rim of the window, and as his neck bent at an odd angle as the rest of his body fell onto the windshield. He scrambled to his hands and knees, his head pounding viciously.

He quickly rammed his shoulder against the window, again, and again. It broke and a flurry of sparkles and blood. Sherlock shimmied out of the window, expecting Moran to be right on top of him. But when he flung himself to his feet, blinding headlights glared at him, meters away. Moran revved his engine, clearly wanting him to run.

So he ran.

The night quickly swallow him, until he could barely see the trees flying around him. His feet pounded the invisible ground, and his breath became labored and heavy. A slight cloud of fear penetrated his mind. Nothing was going to plan. He needed to fix this, fast.

Sherlock's foot caught on a protruding root and he fell. His hands reflexively shot out to break his fall, and he skidded face first to a stop. Sherlock laid still for a short moment, and listen to the sound of foliage crashing somewhere behind him, and rapidly getting closer. One foot in front of the other, Sherlock told himself. Faster, you have to go faster. The blood dripping into his eye was making it increasingly hard to see. A cough itched in his chest, begging to be released.

All Sherlock wanted to do with curl up in a ball and sleep. He grasped at a stitch in his side and was about ready to give up when he heard a lone siren far off in the night. This spurred him on with renewed vigor. They would find him, hopefully before it was too late.

The trees parted very suddenly, and Sherlock sprinted into a clearing. Above him loomed a large, clearly abandoned, wooden barn. A second siren wailed to life, and Sherlock decided to hide inside. Moran didn't seem to be a man who accepted defeat easily, but if he spent too much time searching, his capture would be inevitable.

Sherlock took too long strides to the side of the barn and immediately started running his hands across the wall, searching for any loose boards. His scanned the wall with his eyes, but the week moonlight barely revealed anything. After adding several splinters to his list of injuries, Sherlock concluded that standing here was the best way to get shot in the head.

He jogged down the side of the long ways wall, running his hand along searching for a possible entry point. He let a sigh of relief escape him as his hand touched the cool glass.

Sherlock quickly kicked in the dual window and slid through on his stomach. The light was even dimmer inside, and moonlight filtered in through cracks in the roof. There was nothing in the barn, accepting a huge tangle of vines in one corner, and a pile of junk metal in the opposite.

He spotted the silhouette of a ladder and the outline of a hayloft. Sherlock jumped for the ladder, pulling it down with a bang that set his teeth on edge. He flew up it, imagine that he heard Moran right outside the wall. Sherlock tried to cram himself into the corner, cursing his gangly limbs. The silence seemed to be a tangible, pulsating mass. The sirens had faded away, crushing Sherlock's hope of a rescue.

Sherlock listened as heavy footsteps drew closer to the barn. He despised hiding away, it made him feel weak and feeble. He decided he would attack Moran when he showed himself. Sherlock saw a flashlight's beam shine through the boards. He tried to make his breathing as shallow as possible.

He listened intently as he heard a heavy body slam into a door that he had missed. Another slam, then the bang of the metal lock breaking, and Moran entered the barn.

Sherlock could not see Moran from his loft, but he watched the man's beam of light flash around the room.

"I thank you for the enjoyable hunt!" Moran called out in a heavy Scottish accent. "Although I must say, from the way Mister Moriarty talked of you, I expected so much more."

Sherlock could hear the sneer in Moran's voice. He ground his teeth in hatred. The beam of light moved to the scrap pile, and Sherlock listened as Moran kicked at it.

"The baby detective sure knows how to play hide and seek," Moran taunted. "Where'd you learn that from? Your dead Doctor pal?"

Sherlock felt shivers of rage race across his skin. He had to wait for the right moment…

"Ah! I see where the little man is hiding!"

The streak of light pointed at the sheathed ladder. Sherlock slowly rose to his knees. _Oh, this was going to hurt…_

Moran pulled down the ladder with a jolt. Sherlock braced himself, willing his head to stop throbbing. He watched as Moran's hand clasped around the top rung, and he stood up to his full height, staying in the shadows. Moran's head of sandy hair and torso followed, and Sherlock charged.

He threw himself on to the man, Moran's blue eyes widening in shock. Sherlock's momentum propelled them into the air, then they fell the 3-meter drop to the barn floor. The breath immediately was knocked out of Moran, (who had fallen first) and Sherlock's bones jostled from the impact. However, he tucked and rolled away from the winded man, ignoring the sudden excruciating pain in his lower abdomen.

Injury #19

~Possible broken rib

Moran let out of a wheezing cough, then flung out an arm as Sherlock launched himself for his pistol. Sherlock ducked it and quickly observed Moran- trying to deduce a weakness.

He had a sig pistol on his hip, and a British army issue L129A1 rifle slung over his back. He was dressed in black camo and was in peak physical shape.

Sherlock failed to dodge the fist that materialized inches from his face. He reeled back, seeing white flashes in his vision. Blood spurted over his lips and chin.

Injury #20

~Broken nose

He stayed down too long. Sherlock heard the cock of a rifle and realized it was all over. He opened his eyes and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun.

 _He had had a good life,_ Sherlock mused. _He had saved more people's lives than he could count. He just wished he had been able to save John's…_

"And so ends the tale of the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes," Moran smiled.

 **BANG.**

Sherlock had closed his eyes. Is this what death feels like? Painless? He realized he could still control all of his limbs, and he opened his eyes in confusion.

What he saw was Moran lying dead on the ground, blood still bubbling from a hole in his throat. And an angel standing behind him holding a gun.

"So I am dead then." Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes again.

"Hate to break it to you, but you're not." The angel said. "To be honest I thought you be… I don't know reacting."

"No, I am definitely dead," Sherlock replied to his angel.

"Sherlock…" The angel scowled.

The being walked up to Sherlock and picked up his hand. Sherlock looked at the angel curiously. The angel held Sherlock's hand to his beating heart. John smiled at him.

"No!"

Sherlock ripped his hand away. A terrible pressure building in his chest. He climbed to his feet, looking down at John, John? _John?_

"NO!" Sherlock turned, finding himself backed up to a wall.

John stepped forward, a slightly scared expression appearing on his face.

"You're dead, YOU ARE DEAD!" Sherlock bellowed.

John's face broke. A look of intense sadness filled his entire stature.

"Sherlock, I did it to protect you. I had to die so that Moriarty would keep you alive."

John stepped forward again, cornering the frantic detective. Tears filled up Sherlock's unwilling eyes. His hurt and feeling of betrayal must've shown clearly on his face, as John's expression changed for the third time. To one of the desperate need of forgiveness.

"Mycroft found me after we split up, he told me what was about to happen to you, I couldn't let you die, Sherlock! It was the only way!" John pleaded.

Sherlock crouched down into a ball, trying to get away. John kneeled down beside him.

"You.. you died in my arms." Sherlock murmured, trying desperately to hold back the massive wave.

"It was a fake blood. And acting. I'm so sorry Sherlock. It was torture for me those four days. Mycroft wouldn't tell me anything."

Sherlock's frozen brain managed to register the fact that he had now lost over a pint of blood.

"J-John-" Sherlock stuttered, looking over at the alive Doctor. "I-I.."

Sherlock felt a wave of dizziness overwhelm him, and blackness started to creep in around the edges of his vision. He collapsed into John's arms.

"I'm 'lad you're al've-... I forgive you." He managed to croak before everything faded away.

 **There might or might not be a follow up- but whew! I can't believe I turned that into a series. I hope you guys all enjoyed it as much as I did!**


	55. Evaluation

**Evaluation**

 _noun-_

 _the making of a judgment about the amount, number, or value of something; assessment._

* * *

"Mr. Holmes. Are you listening to me?"

Sherlock sighed as his attention was diverted from deducing the rabble walking by. His eyes flickered over the woman sitting before him, but his focus soon shifted towards the street again. He had surmised over an hour ago that he was being interviewed by an ambitious, mildly egotistic, pessimistic, wannabe psychologist.

" _Mr._ _Holmes._ " The woman said again with obvious annoyance.

"Yes, Ms..." Sherlock glanced at her name tag. "Donner?"

"You are _here_ because you broke into a high-security bank-"

"There was a perfectly viable reason-" Sherlock interrupted.

"Oh yes!" Ms. Donner flipped through her notes with a plastic smile. "You claimed that a Jim Moriarty had led you there, and prompted you to break into a federal vault. And why was that? He told you there was information about..."

Sherlock's glare grew fiery, and Eliza Donner sensed that that was a delicate topic for the Consulting Detective. She casually ticked off a box on her clipboard.

"You are aware I'm sure, I have the power to approve, or deny your continued work with Scotland Yard."

"Lestrade will find a way." Sherlock replied dismissively.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade agreed wholeheartedly to this evaluation." She shot back.

Sherlock met the woman's eyes before him, and decided this was an utter waste of precious time. There were much more important things to do, even if he would have to do them outside the law. He stood up and walked to the door, prepared to leave.

"It says here," Ms. Donner said casually. "You are affiliated with a Mr. John Watson."

" _Doctor_ John Watson." Sherlock hissed, his hand on the door knob.

"Sit down Mr. Holmes." Eliza deadpanned.

Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose. Automatically, a facade of patience contorted his face. He spun on his heel to meet the Ms. Donner's gaze.

"Perhaps we can come to an agreement?" Sherlock said lightly.

"Oh I'm sure..." Eliza said with an eye roll.

Sherlock growled angrily, and plopped into the cheap leather chair. This was the epitome of frustration, even worse than staying at Mummy's with Mycroft.

"How would you describe your relationship with _Doctor_ Watson?"

"He's my partner." Sherlock said, then with an afterthought added, "In solving crimes."

Ms. Donner's eyebrows rose, she made a quick note on her clipboard. Sherlock shifted in his seat, trying to catch a glimpse of her paper. He saw the words, _relies heavily on an appearance of no emotions-,_ before she caught him out at it. She gave him a sarcastic smirk and laid the clipboard face-down on her lap.

"And... exactly how long have you been acquainted with him?"

The question brought back memories of pink, Stamford, Baker Street, and an intriguing army doctor who missed the war.

"Five years, seven months, eleven days, and.. twelve hours." Sherlock replied, returning her smirk.

She leaned back into the sofa, her pencil teasing the corner of her lip.

"Including the time you were dead?" She asked.

That gave Sherlock momentary pause.

"No." He answered shortly.

"It says here that your flatmate Doctor Watson, has been on the missing person list at Scotland Yard for two weeks now."

Sherlock said nothing.

"You submitted a police report that he was kidnapped by Jim Moriarty for.. leverage was it?"

Sherlock made no move at all, his chest barely even moved as he breathed.

"And you broke into a bank because Moriarty told you that he would give you information of Doctor Watson's whereabouts if you did."

Eliza Donner smiled as she observed her patient clearly struggling with his motto of 'no emotions'.

"I've figured you out Mr. Holmes," She said. "There's no more hiding from me."

Sherlock unfroze and a hand slowly rose to his face. He shielded his eyes, and coughed.

Ms. Donner's smile became kind.

"You're free to go." She said.

Sherlock unfolded out of his cocoon, and met her eyes questioningly.

"You clearly want to do nothing else then find your friend, so I suggest you hurry up about it. You are certifiably... well," She grinned. "You're not normal are you?"


	56. Nightmare

**Nightmare**

 _noun-_

 _a frightening or unpleasant dream._

* * *

John Watson rolled over in his bed, dreams of the war disturbing his peaceful night's sleep. A frown creased his brow, and a soft moan escapes his lips. A floor below, Sherlock Holmes sat regarding a bacteria he had found in his frozen lambs heart. The Holmes' acute hearing picked up a familiar sound of discomfort coming from his flatmate's room. Sherlock scowled into his microscope.

That therapist of John's really had lost her marbles, treating him for PTSD instead of nightmares. Sherlock pushed his interesting new bacteria away with a flourish and strode to the living room. He retrieved his weapon of choice and decided to play John's favorite composer.

He started with a nice soothing concerto of Bach's and played louder as he heard another whimper. He preceded to play for an hour, so wrapped in the intense notes and swirling rhythms, that he forgot entirely of the bacteria calling his name from the kitchen.

When John slumped down the steps the next morning, he found Sherlock balled around his violin on the sofa. He shook his head and smiled. He remembered what had soothed his nightmare the night before. Tossing a blanket onto his snoozing flatmate, he went to the kitchen to make tea for the both of them.

"John!"

The man in question glanced up from his morning newspaper to see the world's only Consulting Detective, wild-eyed and crazy haired, looking like he was about to jump out of his skin.

"Yes good morning," John said, trying to hold back the urge to laugh.

"Oh thank you, John, you're bloody brilliant!"

John raised a tawny eyebrow.

"What'd I do now?"

"The bacteria John! Oooh, this is good," Sherlock clapped his hands. "If you hadn't had a nightmare last night, I wouldn't have allowed the bacteria to ferment, and Oooh it multiplied into something- we have to go to Bart's John, this could be a science breakthrough!"

Sherlock dodged around the table, grabbed John's forearm and pulled him away from his breakfast.

"Okay, okay I'm coming. Good lord Sherlock."


	57. Misplaced

**Misplaced**

 _adjective-_

 _temporarily lost._

* * *

"John? Why are you… are you looking for something?"

Sherlock Holmes peeked into the kitchen, where his flatmate, John Watson, was tearing apart the carefully constructed mess. He rummaged through a pile of newspapers containing part of a horse brain, then recoiled in disgust when his bare fingers touched the gooey substance.

"I- yes, I.. It's under control Sherlock, you're fine," John grunted.

Sherlock watched as John tore apart the wreckage on the kitchen counter. A month old experiment was thrown to the side, and Sherlock cringed as his precious bacteria hit the floor.

"John, must you search for whatever it is with such vigor? You could've just shattered the cure for the common cold."

John paused for a moment.

"Really?"

"No," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "Just some pancreas tissue samples from last month's case."

John rolled his eyes, not even bothering to laugh. He resumed his hunt but handled the objects he displaced with more care. Sherlock looked on as John's annoyance levels grew visibly.

"Ugh, where is it?!" John exclaimed after a few futile minutes.

"Can I be of any assistance?" Sherlock ventured.

The frustrated Doctor leaned heavily upon the worn kitchen table and shook his head. He swiped his hands over his knitted jumper, brain matter still clinging to his fingertips.

"No, no, it's nothing. It's just, I've misplaced something."

"Obviously."

John threw a shady look in Sherlock's direction, and he decided John wasn't in the best of moods for his usual sarcasm. He observed John's tense shoulders, creased brow, and defeated posture, and concluded that it was a missing trinket of sentimental value.

"Where did you last see them?" Sherlock questioned, fully stepping into the disaster zone.

John glanced crookedly over at the detective.

"I never said it was an it," John said.

"I believe you left your soon-to-be ex-girlfriend's number on the... your bedside drawer. Yes, that's it."

John stared at him in surprise then left to call his girlfriend whom he had gotten separated from in the mall. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's antics and returned to his room, back to his experiments. They made sense at least.

 **Sorry for the delay and the length! I have a longer one in the making, and summer is almost here, which means daily chapters if you guys want them ;0)**


	58. Trials (part 1)

**Trials**

 _noun-_

 _a test of the performance, qualities, or suitability of someone or something._

* * *

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled. "I. Need. Answers."

He hung up on his brother with a snap, icy rage prompting him to chuck his phone at the wall. It cracked against the yellow smiley face, then fell dejectedly onto the couch. Sherlock stared at the spot where it fell, mentally daring it to bring him more bad news. Suddenly a soft knock derailed his train of thought.

"Mrs. Hudson now's not really an ideal time, " He said while he pulled his feet under him on his armchair.

The landlady cautiously peeked her head around the door, contaminating the flat with her air of worry.

"Sherlock dear, I'm sorry to bother you... I was just wondering..."

Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, a small purple bird ready to ruffle her feathers and fly away.

"There's no news." Sherlock rumbled.

He gazed ahead, John's familiar chair filling the void. Sherlock refused to meet Mrs. Hudson's eye, and she silently retreated to her flat. Sherlock remembered being slightly nauseated when first entering Mrs. Hudson's flat. Full of frills, lace, and pastel color walls. He supposed she wouldn't find solace in her decor tonight. Sherlock decided to go over the facts, knowledge over speculation always prevails.

One, John was missing. Taken from his annual medical retreat, he was spirited away right under his colleagues abnormally long noses. Sherlock had not noticed anything until he had received the phone call a day after the fact. If they had only rang him as _soon_ as they noticed Dr. John Watson had not logged in his hours at the end of the day.

 _Idiots, all of them._

If he was honest, he would admit that he was a little surprised when he had not received any check in texts from the man. Silently, he got up and snatched his phone from it's resting place. Sherlock scrolled through his text threads and looked at all the messages from the day John had left. _Did you eat today? Check-in with Mrs. Hudson, would you? I left your favorite fish in the fridge._ He glared at his curt, one-word answers, and quickly shot off a text to John.

 _Give him back. -SH_

Sherlock became a rock and stared at the electronic screen without blinking. He felt a storm bubbling in his stomach, but he forced it down and resolutely didn't move. He did not move an inch for what seemed like quite a long time. Quite suddenly, the typing button popped into existence.

 _Come and get him sweety._

Sherlock flew to the door, nearly tripping over is stiff legs. Scotland Yard can track the number, it most certainly was a trap, but it was a lead at least.


	59. Blizzard (part 2)

**Blizzard**

 _noun-_

 _a severe snowstorm with high winds and low visibility._

* * *

Lestrade squinted at the tiny print on his desktop screen "Let's see..."

Sherlock tapped his foot, his customary scowl growing darker by the second.

"Well?" he snapped.

"The text was sent at 13:45 from a warehouse in the East midlands. Which is abandoned."

He kicked the chair in front of him. "Per Moriarty's style," Sherlock growled.

"You think so?" Lestrade asked, relaxing into his executive chair.

He had been remarkably calm around this whole fiasco, Sherlock would never admit it, but he appreciated Graham's steadfast belief that he would find John.

Sherlock began to pace from one confining wall to the other. "Yes, his fingerprints all over this case are obvious. Although it is quite unusual for him not to have any move such as yet. No one else would have taken John without so much as a hair from his head. It's almost as if..." he stopped.

"What, what?" Lestrade sat up eagerly.

"It's almost as if he was never at the retreat at all."

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow, "But how could that be possible? We have testimonies from several witnesses that he arrived at his hotel, and was spotted several times throughout the first day."

Sherlock paused to look out of the high story window. The wind buffeted it mercilessly, throwing the snow in waves against The Scotland Yard offices. _A blizzard is coming..._

He held a hand against the frosty glass and closed his eyes. After a minute of feeling the storm, he spoke.

"I don't know Lestrade."

* * *

A fist sang through the dark, bringing white spots dancing a foxtrot across the ceiling.

"Talk!"

The same voice, the same, _predictable_ torture. He had given up trying to dodge his 'creative' interrogator's blows, as it just seemed to upset the man's state of mind further. John Watson spat coppery blood from his mouth in what he hoped was the direction of his assailant.

"You bastard," he growled and clubbed John's ear, which left it ringing like an insistent telephone. John ducked his head and carefully flexed his arms, but the chains encircling his hands were still as tight as they were hours ago, _or was it days?..._

A door screeched open on the far side of the chamber. "That's enough."

 _Well, that was new._ The voice that had spoken was a silky, baritone contrast to the bristly rasp of the man who had been punching his lights out for who knows how long. John tried to place the voice, but the hazy pastiche of his memories failed to yield any recognition. The darkness coating John's vision grew heavy, and he wanted to crumble under the militating cushion. He strained to hear anything, as the torture room had grown silent. John felt a prickle on his neck and realized they probably were both staring at him.

"He won't speak?" John placed the tone of the man as similar to that of a leopard's growl, smooth and hypnotizing.

"No Sir."

"Get out."

Footsteps shuffled away from him, and the door wailed in its endless pain. John tensed as the seconds drew into minutes. He knew, _he knew_ the new threat was still waiting in the blackness, waiting for him to make a move. But John refused to give in. He could withstand physical torture, so he would not succumb to this man's mind games.

However, he was shocked when he felt a finger drag its nail along his jaw. John pitched back from the touch, his heart betraying him by hammering away in his chest. He couldn't stand it any longer and he spoke, "Who's there?"

A dark chuckle echoed in John's ear. "He speaks!" The predator whispered.

His mouth curled in hatred for his unseen enemy. "Why am I here?" John snarled.

The leopard man hummed, as he orbited around John's chair.

"You are here Because I made it so Watson."

John stiffened as the sudden military authority in the man's voice washed over him like a wave.

"You are not obeying my men."

The voice faded away as he walked to the far side of the room. John winced as hinges squealed, and a force of biting cold engulfed him, John couldn't help it as his body was taught with violent shivers. Snow brushed up against his cheek in a caressing touch, then stung him as it melted into his skin. His thin jumper and trousers did little to shield him from the burning cold.

Without warning, the man's footsteps stopped behind him, and his chair was given a vicious shove. The crude metal chair tilted forward against gravity, and a gasp flew from his lips as his body tipped in almost slow motion. John's nose shattered as it connected with the unforgiving concrete and his body struggled to hold itself up. Fiery pain bubbled up inside him, but he instilled a wall, not allowing himself to cry out. He would not please the Leopard in any way.

The footsteps strutted away and the door yawned open.

"But... You will ." He laughed before slamming the door, which effectively drowned out John's curses. He was left alone in the dark.


	60. Doubt (Part 3) summer of 2016

**Doubt**

 _noun-_

 _a feeling of uncertainty or lack of conviction._

* * *

Sherlock scrolled through his list of nervous tendencies and tested each one; which failed to relieve any of his impatience. He could see Lestrade's annoyance growing as he drummed his fingers against the frosted window, and he only refrained from nibbling at his fingernails as he noticed he was being laughed at by the dog-like taxi driver. His deflated face reminded Sherlock of a Boston terrier, the man's mouth drooping across his face in a permanent frown. Plus his wheezing laugh marked him as a smoker for twenty plus years, or possibly asthmatic.

Sherlock frowned in the direction of the rearview mirror and reversed to stare at the fingers of ice slink up the tinted window. He wondered if John was out in the cold someplace, shivering in the snow; waiting for him. Sherlock gritted his teeth in a primeval snarl of frustration. What was so different? Why couldn't he just put his finger on what was wrong about this-

 _Oh._

"Lestrade tell me all the places he was spotted," Sherlock said whilst he squinted at the frosty landscape whizzing past.

He fumbled with his papers for several moments before pulling out the list of sightings.

"John was seen in the plaza courtyard eating lunch at 12:57, then he returned to his hotel room and was seen by multiple patrons on his way up. He was seen at the psychological workshop run by Dr. Melissa Hammond and shook hands with her after her talk. Then he went on to go to two more workshops at-

"Stop." Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade dutifully ceased reciting the list and watched Sherlock curiously.

He snatched the paper from the detective inspector's hands. "Do we have any testimony from Dr. Hammond?" he asked as his eyes flashed over the words.

"No, we do not. Dr. Hammond was released after giving evidence of seeing Dr. Watson three days ago."

"Driver," Sherlock flicked his hand to get the dog man's attention through the divider. "Drive us to Oxford, we have a Doctor to speak with."

The man grunted and leaned forward to change the GPS coordinates.

"But, why?" Lestrade exclaimed.

"John does not study psychology. He went to that workshop for a reason, he must have left some clue or sign with the Doctor. If he was being tailed, that would have been a discrete way to leave a message for us."

"Brilliant, so we might have a lead then?"

Sherlock checked his phone. Their ETA to the Conference plaza in Oxford where the retreat had taken place was just under two hours. But he needed to be there in person, John couldn't be there for him on this case. He needed to talk to Dr. Hammond face-to-face.

"If we get there in time."

* * *

John admired the exquisite shapes his breath puffed into life; the little clouds floated up to the ceiling and shook more salt like snow onto his head. He had stopped being cold ages ago, and now he just pleased himself with fantasies of roast pork at the local tavern and the Baker street hearth burning brightly. The warm fire was starting to become too hot, and John decided to tell Sherlock to douse the fire. It was starting to burn his arm, and it hurt.

His chapped lips parted and he began to hoarsely argue with Sherlock who was obstinately refusing to douse the fire. John tried to tell him he couldn't do it, his arms wouldn't obey his thoughts, but Sherlock ignored him and began to play a sweet melodic tune on his violin. John rolled his eyes, but soon his agitation from the fire melted away and his thoughts muddled in time to the violin's song.

John's last rational thought left him wondering why his nose had turned blueberry blue.

He would have to ask Sherlock, he would know why. He always knows...

* * *

"Should we warm him yet Sir?"

"No, not yet." He purred, rubbing his hands in glee.

The double paned window revealed Doctor Watson inside the snow filled room, chair still propped sideways against the floor. Watson's face had begun to lose its color around an hour ago, and his eyes had long since lost their malicious luster.

The men had really lost it when Watson had begun to sing to an unknown tune, and speak as though he were having a conversation.

As much fun as this was, Watson couldn't die yet. But, being on the brink of death wouldn't hurt his plan. Not at all.

 **Woo! Summer time! Back to daily 'Daily Occurrences' , hope you like this one, I am really enjoying this mini series.**


	61. Hose (part 4)

_(warning: this chapter is k+ for mentions of nudity and violence)_

 **Hose**

"Get up rat!"

John was suddenly aware of the fact that he was being dragged out of his cell, and out into a shadowy hallway with walls that danced across his vision. He noted that the chains had vanished as his hands flew in front of him as he tripped over his tangled feet. He never reached the ground as the hand on his collar gave a vicious yank and propelled John further down the corridor. Bar quality lighting sneered from the ceiling, and John caught a glimpse of the rotten yellowed smile of the giant bull dragging him along.

He never reached the ground as the hand on his collar gave a vicious yank and propelled John further down the corridor.

Feeling was beginning to return to his limbs, and John knew that he should be trying to observe his surroundings but the thoughts were frisky fish in his mind and skillfully evaded his net.

Next John knew, he was pushed against the wall by his savior from the cold, who instantly lost all gratitude from John as he began stripping off his sopping wet clothes. John didn't have the energy to fight against the insistent, prying fingers. In the back of his head, the coed Doctor whispered, the first treatment for hypothermia.. remove wet clothing and dry... But why would anyone be trying to help him? Unless there were worse things in his future.

The warm air struck his skin like a thousand tiny needles and he whimpered, wishing for his clothes again. John shuddered against the concrete wall, and he wished it would swallow him up into the void as his manly-hood was stripped away piece by piece.

"Put yer arms up." The torturer yapped.

John yearned to wheel around and sock the scoundrel right in the teeth, but he struggled to support himself on his wobbly legs and would most likely fall on his nose. So he complied while leaning his hip against the cool, icy concrete.

John heard the man yank something and it squealed in protest, rubber something? A tube? Oh God-

Water gasped from a hose and sprayed against John's bare legs like a torrent of hell-fire burning through his flesh. John knew the water must be lukewarm at best, but bloody hell was it hot!

He mentally made a pact to always wear warm knickers. No matter what the darned weatherman says it'll be outside.

After relentlessly housing down of John's backside, his skin had begun to tingle with blood in his veins and only then did John concede that he was not going to die of hypothermia.

John coughed. "So, mate. Why am I still alive?"

The man kicked him roughly in the shins, wresting a grunt of pain from John.

"No talking." He said.

John heard him spit across the cell and an awful earthy smell teased under his nose. Tobacco, John wagered. The smell took him way back to dusty skies and boiling flesh. If his army mates could only see him now. The bone-rattling shivers had begun to die out like a sputtering flame, and John desperately willed his strength to return. He couldn't take much more of this.

The man seemed to have changed his mind and he bent in close to John's ear, causing a shiver of disgust to race across his skin, and whispered,

"He be waitin' for the fun to start. The game hasn't even started yet Watson. You're not even near the board, you're the damsel in distress."

John snorted and without a moment's hesitation, head-butted the pig standing inches behind him. John could finally face his enemy and found him to be a lanky, underfed kid. Sprawled across the floor with a broken nose always did wonders on your intimidation factor. John was half tempted to offer the lad a hand up; but from the way he was seeming to tear John limb from limb with his eyes, better not.

"You're with the wrong crowd bud," John said, and roughly kicked him in the head.

With the guard out of the way, maybe he had some chance of getting out of here. John eyed him sopping clothes in the corner. Then back at the shabbily clad teen slumped against the wall.

"That'll do."


	62. Puppetmaster (part 5)

**Puppetmaster**

 _noun-_

 _person, group, or country that covertly controls another._

* * *

Lestrade had taken an eternity to convince the campus security guard that _yes_ he was a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard, and he needed to interrogate one of the professors _right now._

Sherlock was halfway to phoning Mycroft to call off his dogs when at last the sergeant finally showed up to confirm their story. Lestrade had to leave his badge with the officers, but soon they were speeding down the historic stone halls, and Sherlock had called up a map in his mind to the psychology department.

The Doctoral Retreat at Oxford was clearing up their tents and clutter by the time they barreled into the courtyard separating them from the psychology department. John had walked these very halls _just days ago._ It was maddening.

The glinting sun beamed over the unhappy field, causing the tan stones of the castle walls to shine blindingly. Sherlock couldn't help but sneer at the forlorn attendees milling about, scavenging the scraps of the retreat. It had been shut down after it was clear that John had really gone missing.

Police were still scanning for anything that could be connected, but such as yet they hadn't even a janitor that could have had malicious intent.

A black-clad officer flagged them down from a table set up with cameras and electrical wires. "Ho, there!"

Sherlock made to continue on, but Lestrade resolutely caught his arm and preceded to roughly lead him over to the group of men. Sherlock cringed in disgust as his leather loafers crunched over a package of biscuits that had blown out of the rod iron trashcan a meter away.

"Where you heading off to in such a hurry!" The fellow cried.

He had a scruffy red beard and hair that reminded Sherlock of an Irish setter. His heavy Irish lilt topped it all off. His buff programmer buddies all crowded behind him, five or so, all who looked similar to the man. _Ah yes, this must be the Irish intelligence unit._

One married secretly, one engaged, one hiding his homosexuality, one who lived in his father's basement, one who seemed to be the most boring man alive, and one who frankly should just stick to hairstyling.

What high standards the police department holds themselves too.

Too easy.

 _I wish John were here. He would say something like, 'Sherlock. Don't look for their flaws, look at them as people.' and probably a boatload more of good-hearted blether._

"We're from the Yard," The D. I. explained. "Here on important business."

The ginger rolled his eyes, "Have the units finally found a lead on the fellow? If you ask me, he probably ran off with a couple of the fine Oxford women and passed out drunk in a motel someplace."

Sherlock made a fist, ready to lash out with deductions so severe he wouldn't show his filthy redheaded fact for fifty years. He was surprised when Lestrade didn't make any calculating move to put him off or tear him away. Greg was just as ready to defend John's honor as he was.

The man read their faces and hastily backpedaled, "Woah there boys, didn't mean no disrespect. Never met the man myself."

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose. John didn't have time enough for this. "He's a _Doctor_ ," he spat. "Give him the _proper_ respect."

Sherlock now was the one dragging Lestrade away from the sniggering officers and towards the ecru medieval buildings across the green lawn.

* * *

John itched the tight wool uniform that clung around his neck like a noose. The stolen clothing was less than adequate, but necessary. However, so far he had seen nothing that would entail him needing a disguise.

No cameras, no locked doors, and most strangely of all, wherever he wandered there were no people to be seen. _I just love it when everything is a trap,_ he thought sarcastically.

The uniform beige walls seemed to run on and on and on, only interrupted by the few eerie iron doors every few feet or so.

No cameras, no locked doors, and most strangely of all, wherever he wandered there were no people to be seen. The uniform beige walls seemed to run on and on and on, only interrupted by the few eerie iron doors every few feet or so.

After what could have been an hour, or several of aimlessly trying to find an exit or even a familiar sight, John gave up. When he came upon an almost cafeteria-like room, he sat down at the nearest metal table, exhausted. He thought by now, Sherlock would have gotten his message, somebody would have come for him.

The room he was in felt almost bigger than it should be, the wall looked squat and confining, but somehow the room echoed with every breath and the tiny windows lodged crookedly in the ceiling eased his fear of being snuck up on.

It felt like ages since he had last slept in his downy bed in his Oxford hotel. He laid his head against the knurled, unforgiving surface and closed his eyes. Surely he would hear it if anyone approached, he would be safe for now.

* * *

I stare into the mirror image of my wintry blue eyes and silently, with reverence, dawned my curly black haired wig. My servant shuffled forward, and on bended knee held out my midnight black coat, which I shrugged onto my shoulders. With a flourish, I bent the collar up and tied my periwinkle scarf around my pale neck.

The game is on.


	63. Mirror (part 6)

**Mirror**

 _noun- such a surface set into a frame, attached to a handle, etc., for use in viewing oneself or as an ornament._

 _such a surface set into a frame, attached to a handle, etc., for use in viewing oneself or as an ornament._

* * *

The mirror never lies, I reminded myself. I have to remember my oath.

I am now the world's only consulting detective and I am a high functioning sociopath. With those thoughts, I can feel myself become the man, the myth, the legend. I felt stronger, smarter, ready to take on the world. Holmes had been the one and only choice on my part. It could never have been anyone else.

"Jason," I growled, trying to imbue my voice with the silky, dangerous inflections I had listened to, over and over.

My servant bent his cowardly head. I was pleased to see the wretched man quiver in fear at my transformation.

"Is the vocal surgeon prepared?" I purred and occupied myself by petting his balding head with my slender fingers.

"N-no Master. She is still trying to download the voice, it is seeming to be quite difficult."

I sighed heavily.

"Well, tell her to HURRY UP!" I hit my slave roughly around the ear, which sent him scurrying off into the tunnels like the rat he was.

I slowed my breathing intentionally and studied my new face in the cracked mirror. One of the black crevices in the reflective surface ran right through half of my face, and I imagined my old features bubbling up from under the surface. My green eyes to his blue. My brown curls to his black.

 _No. You must forget your old face. Do not dwell on your past,_ I remind myself.

"Goodbye, voice," I say just to hear my familiar pitch one last time.

Soon, I will be Sherlock Holmes. Completely.

"She is ready for you," Jason whispered humbly.

I swept away from the mirror feeling the new power tingle through my veins.

* * *

John woke up staring at a textured white ceiling, definitely not the same one that had been there before he slept.

He tasted an artificial, saccharine haze clotting on his tongue. "Dammit."

"Indeed." A female voice answered.

John started, having assumed he was alone. He couldn't sit up, naturally his hands were bound on either side and ankles given the same treatment.

He blinked slowly, trying to adjust to the low light. "Who... who's there?" John called out with slight apprehension.

"Nobody important." The voice monotoned.

The woman was speeching with a french accent, rolling her _r's_ and enunciating through her nose. She sounded around John's age, her pitch slightly lower than the average lady.

"Pleasure to have you acquaintance nobody." John joked as he addressed the ceiling.

He couldn't sense whether or not he should be wary of the woman, but frankly he was tired of being on his guard.

She gasped theatrically. "Chivalry lives!"

John allowed himself a hoarse chuckle. He was beginning to feel the ache of his injuries return, John decided his beaten, bruised body needed a long week off work when he got home. He longed to go back to sleep, but it seemed likely he might not wake up next time.

"Any chance you could tell me the time?" John ventured.

The woman giggled, and something rattled. _Chains._

"Would if I could, Darling."

John was silent a moment and tested the strength of his bonds.

"Do you know why I'm in here?"

The woman was quiet for a long time, and John could hear the chains shifting about. "I am not supposed to talk to you."

John tried to turn his head so that he could look at her, but a cone-shaped metal piece prevented him.

John's heart twanged nervously. "No, please. We are both trapped here, we could get out of this together." John assured her.

"No! You can't leave, I-" She cut off abruptly, and John guessed she was shaking from the noise of the chains.

"What is it? Tell me please!" John begged.

When she didn't speak, and he listened to her breath deeply as she struggled with herself. "My... my name is Meg," she said at last.

"My name is John, Meg."

John tried to smile friendily in her direction but was stopped once more. A sudden idea popped into his head.

"Meg, are your chains long?" he asked.

"Yes..." she answered quietly.

John tugged at his wrists and felt a strap securing them tight.

"If you could reach me, you could undo my restraints! And then I could free you and we could get out of this place." He ejaculated confidently.

"No, I can't!" She cried.

John was puzzled, why was she so afraid to leave?

"But you could, right? They're long enough?"

Silence.

"Meg, listen please, I really need your help. And I can help you in return. You don't want to die here do you?"

"No." She whispered.

"If you could just-" John tugged on the blasted cuffs again.

Meg sighed deeply. John could tell he was on the verge of swaying her.

"Close your eyes." She said.

John raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Just do it, please. And don't open them."

He complied, and shut out the unchanging view of the ceiling.

"Now, you have to keep talking so I know where you are." She said as the chains clinked.

 _So she's blind... okay. But why close my eyes?_

"Uhm, nice weather we're having today? Or well, the day when I got kidnapped was pretty nice, lots of sun though. I got some sun on my nose. I'll have to put some lotion on it when I get home. My flatmate has a stash I think. He always manages to smell like a pond. Not in a bad way, though, just... like water I guess. Cool, and chilly. Weird thing to smell like though."

John could hear soft footsteps approaching him, and heavily resisted the urge to open his eyes. He kept chattering on even when the first cuff started to loosen.

"I'll have to pick up a bag of biscuit on my way home, I think we ran out of them again. Sher- my flatmate loves to dip them in tea, which I think is revolting because they get all soggy and crumble in the tea which is frankly a waste. I love a good brew of English breakfast myself. No sugar, it lessens the taste. It wakes you up in the morning."

John started when Meg touched him lightly to guide herself to the cuffs on his ankles, but scrunched his eyes shut. He kept talking until all of the cuffs had been removed. He just couldn't seem to stop.

"Thank you," John said, sitting up and swinging his legs off of the table. "May I open my eyes?"

"No! I'll lead you to the door." Meg exclaimed.

John was starting to think the she was naked, and was going to tell her that that wasn't a problem, he saw bare bodies almost daily in his profession, but stopped when she took his hand. Her hand was soft, almost _too_ soft. It was as if she didn't have any fingerprints. He almost gasped when he felt smooth skin where her fingernails should be.

"Come on," Meg said. "You have to hurry."

"But what about you?" John asked as they walked slowly next to the wall. "Aren't you coming with me?"

Her chains clinked like the sound of rain against the hard floor.

"No. I don't have any life to go back to anymore. That's why I'm saving you from the same fate."

Now John was really, _really_ confused.

"Meg-"

John ran into Meg suddenly as she stopped, and John kept falling as her chains tangled around his feet. His eyes flew open of their own accord as he collided with the linoleum floor.

He gasped loudly, but not because of the noise, or his shock, but what he saw standing above him.

His first thought was of a patchwork quilt, but no that wasn't right. Nothing could be compared to the terrible sight that apparently was his new friend Meg.

Her skin was covered in lines of stitches, discoloring, and bruises. Entire patches of skin were missing, and poorly healed scabs or skin of a different color replaced it. Meg's face was the most gruesome. Her cheeks were hollowed out from stolen skin, her lips, parts of her nose, and hair were all missing. There were only empty sockets where her eyes should have been, and scars crisscrossed her skull like a poorly drawn pencil sketch.

Meg stiffened as the seconds dragged on. She knew he could see her.

Ironically her ears were perfectly intact. John felt like he was going to be sick. Humans, his _species_ were actually capable of such ungodly crimes as this. Nothing but the devil should be able to commit such an act to an innocent girl. _Oh God._ His heart hurt so much for Meg.

"How did this happen to you?" John whispered in the still silence.

He felt like crying. A beautiful life ripped apart for nothing.

"I'm one of their body banks. They take what they need, and if I'm lucky I get a patch or two out of it." Meg replied coldly.

John retched silently, closing his eyes tightly. But he couldn't get the image out of his head.

"I'm relatively untouched compared to others," Meg said, starting to draw away from John. "I'm grateful for what I do have."

" _Who was it?"_ John growled, drawing himself up from the floor.

Meg seemed surprised.

"It was the body changers. Well, that's what I call them at least. They steal people's identities literally, then murder them. They train their whole lives to receive an assignment. It's _disgusting."_

John started to hyperventilate. _How in the Queen's name was this going on in the twenty-first century?_

Meg tittered for a moment, seeming to think about something.

"I heard rumors about the boss, he finally found his assignment. He runs this entire sector of the body changers."

"W-who was his assignment?" John asked, terrified to the core that she was about to say his name.

"A man named Sherlock Holmes."


	64. Sacrifice (part 7)

**Sacrifice**

 _noun-_

 _an act of giving up somethin_ _g valued for the sake of something else regarded as more important or worthy._

* * *

Sherlock swept through the swinging doors like an overly large bat circling in on its prey. Everyone in the small library looked up in surprise, then down again as if they had seen it all before.

Lestrade followed quickly behind Sherlock, doling out whispered apologies as he trailed after the raging Detective. He caught himself thinking that he had rapidly fallen into John's role. That was a rather sobering thought.

"Dr. Hammond?" Sherlock called with ringing authority.

An older woman hidden in the corner of two intersecting bookcases looked up. White wisps of hair floated around her face as she beckoned them over. Dr. Hammond pushed her pince-nez glasses further up her nose to study them as Lestrade and Sherlock joined her at the table. Lestrade banged his knee against the wood post and grunted in pain, to which she shushed him disdainfully.

Sherlock quickly gave her the once over, just in case she was not who they were looking for.

 _Grey hair, used to be artificially dyed blond from the traces still coating her ends. Married twice, the first marriage ended in the death of the spouse, evident from the tarnished 80's style ring hanging from a chain around her neck. Second marriage... no wedding ring, but still slight disfiguring of the finger so no more than three months since the divorce._

 _Divorce because she has a man's tennis jacket tied around her waist. New courter, and so soon as well. That rules out widow. She has one son, most likely from her first marriage, as it was the happiest one, which can be seen from the way she treasures the ring._

 _Son goes to Canterbury college as she has a sticker with the mascot adorning her phone. She teaches at Oxford yet has a Canterbury sticker. Obvious. She's been a teacher for twenty plus years judging from the way she holds her pencil. Long nights grading papers caused calluses to form on her ring finger and thumb._

 _She used to teach young children by the atrocious pink and yellow bookmark with thumbprints covering it. Clearly a gift from her students. She is very intelligent as well from the way she's looking at me and deducing._

Dr. Hammond reminded Sherlock of his Grandmother, a strick brilliant lady who held the world in her hands. Sherlock had loved her dearly, and staring into the clear golden eyes was like turning a page of a well-treasured book. Sherlock presented his hand across the table and the Professor placed hers in his. He sensed a strength behind her frailty, and her handshake left his hand throbbing slightly.

Sherlock smiled genuinely at her. "Doctor," he said in greeting.

She tilted her head as she studied his face. "Detective," she responded.

Sherlock's smile grew wider as Lestrade's confusion doubled.

"You... know her?" Greg deduced.

"No, he does not." Dr. Hammond replied. "I've merely read up on his cases in the paper once or twice. Mr. Holmes is quite astounding in his ways. The way he deduces things isn't too far from the realm of psychoanalyzing. You should come take a class sometime. Or maybe teach it."

Sherlock smirked, and glanced at Lestrade almost to say, _You see this woman? I like her, she knows what she's talking about._ Lestrade kicked him under the table, which humbled Sherlock rather quickly.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard." Lestrade offered, feeling rather silly.

She nodded at him, and Lestrade felt rather disappointed. It was as if they were two puppies clamoring for attention, and she chose the smarter one to dote on.

"So, I'm sure you're not just here to talk to a babbling old lady for the fun of it." Dr. Hammond said, somehow making the joke sound like a threat.

Sherlock bent low over the table and scanned their surroundings with a practiced eye. "If you've read of my cases then you know who Doctor Watson is correct?"

A spark of recognition flashed in her sharp eyes, and she too bent closer as though someone could spy on them in the secluded library.

"Short, sandy-haired, really polite?" She asked.

"That's the one." Lestrade chuckled.

"Did he say or do anything that seemed strange to you when you met him? As you might have heard, he disappeared from the retreat shortly after you spoke with him." Sherlock said in a rush.

His excitement was starting to flood over his emotional barriers. Lestrade chewed his lip and his gaze shot from Sherlock to the professor like he was watching a rugby match. If John had just randomly chosen to attend a psychology talk, he didn't know what Sherlock would do if this turned to be a flop.

Dr. Hammond stared off at a far bookshelf as she tried to recall.

"I remember now!" She said eagerly, surprising both of them. "I'll tell you of how we talked."

 _I had just finished my talk about the developmental crisis that can occur after traumatic events in a young child's life. I had stepped off the stage and returned to my booth where I was handing out pamphlets, and selling copies of my book ' Never forget: a memoir debating youth memories' __After the congregation had been dismissed, I had several bright-eyed psychologists crowd my booth and hammer me with questions._

 _I didn't notice Dr. Watson until after I had conversed with a young man for going on ten minutes._

 _He was standing back, almost close enough to the other stall for me to think he was merely browsing, but as soon as I saw his face I knew he was waiting on me. His face was so grave... it unsettled me a little._

 _I told everyone that I was closing my booth temporarily, and approached him. I directed him to follow me and led him to a table where a few attendee's were eating their lunch. When they saw me, I signaled them to move and they did, leaving us with an empty space to talk._

 _He introduced himself to me, and we went over the pleasantries, but I could tell his mind was far away as we talked._

Dr. Hammond paused for a moment. "I didn't recognize him as your companion at the time," she told Sherlock. "It's so obvious now from the way he spoke of you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, about to ask a flurry of questions, but the Doctor put a calming hand over his.

"Let me finish my story, dear."

 _He was very fidgety, and he was constantly looking behind him and staring over my shoulder at the crowd. I asked him if there was anything bothering him, but he shook his head. He gestured at his coat pocket with an open palm under the table, and raised an eyebrow at me but-_

"He was tapped!" Sherlock declared. "I _knew it_ i, I knew he knew!"

 _Shhhhhh,_ several patrons glared at them from all angles.

Dr. Hammond waved at them apologetically and turned to them. "I didn't think of that at the time," she admitted.

 _I didn't know how to respond and he shook his head. He looked thoughtful then, and I was starting to worry that there was something terribly wrong. He surprised me when he asked if I knew of you. I said yes, and we conversed of you most recent cases for a few minutes._

"He was making sure I stuck in your mind," Sherlock whispered enthusiastically.

 _John was starting to exhibit signs of panic, and I couldn't fathom whatever for. I asked if I could see his phone, having a suspicion that some foul play had taken place. My suspicions were confirmed when a look of terror flashed across his face and he shook his head. So I figured his phone had been stolen._

 _He spoke very slowly and said 'Do you know of the phrase Vatican Cameos?' I told him I was familiar with it. He told me next that if I was ever looking for a good tale, to read 'The case of closed doors' on his blog. Finally, he told me not to tell anyone of our talk or else he would be in danger, than left without saying another word. I found the experience to be strange, but my son got in a car wreck yesterday and it left my mind._

Everyone looked at Sherlock, excepting him to pronounce 'The criminal lives right around the corner, let's go!', but he just slouched in his chair with an intense thoughtful expression.

"Mate. Sherlock mate, does it ring a bell?" Lestrade ventured after several moments.

Sherlock quietly thanked Dr. Hammond for her time and stormed out of the library with as much drama as his entrance.

Greg shook his head and thanked her as well.

Bloody geniuses.

* * *

John had gone quiet, Meg thought. What was wrong?

He must be thinking how horrible I look again. She shuddered as her vivid imagination conjured a picture to match the rough ridges patterned across her skin. It was the image she saw every night in her dreams. Meg was confused when she heard John start muttering to himself, and she felt him pace from wall to wall.

"No, no, no, no, no..."

This seemed an unusual reaction to the news she had just told him.

"John, what's wrong?" she asked.

" _Sherlock holmes,_ are you sure it's _Sherlock holmes?"_ He panted.

Meg remembered the guards joking about it as she passed on her way to the surgery room.

"I'm certain." She promised him, still quite confused.

John moaned and Meg heard him slide down the wall, as if his legs couldn't hold him anymore. Meg imagined herself comforting John from whatever his predicament, but he would never stand to be near her ever again. Even just holding his hand had been the first intentional human touch she had felt, and cherished, for a long time.

"The bloody fool's just too big now isn't he? Had to go and get famous. If only he had listened and played it cool after those big cases..."

"What are you talking about John?"

John snorted. "The git is my best friend."

 _Poor John. They must have brought him here to be kept out of the way. Probably to become a body bank just like her._

Meg chewed at the rough skin where her lip used to be. She barely had any teeth, but still couldn't break the habit that had followed her from a different life. She knew that she should tell him, but he was the only company she'd had in what... two years since that last girl who had tried to escape.

Her conscience won out. "John... now that the boss has turned into Sherlock, he's going to go after the real one. That's why your here."

She could almost feel John's fear as a palpable haze filling the room. She jumped when he hit the floor with his fist.

"I guess I'm gonna have to save him again. He definitely owes me take out when I get back."

.

 _A/N Hello readers! If you've made it thus far, or are jumping around, I applaud you. Just wanted to say, if anybody reviews, I'll be sure to give a shoutout! I thrive off of your feedback :)_

 _ta,_

 _N._


	65. Run (part 8)

**Run**

 _verb-_

 _move about in a hurried and hectic way._

* * *

Sherlock was very silent for the entire journey since they left the college, Lestrade couldn't get a peep out of him. He told their reluctant cabbie to drive them to the nearest hotel, as night was rapidly trickling in from the winter sky.

The Detective Inspector huddled next to the window, basking in the current of stuffy car air conditioning.

Sherlock was moving suddenly, and he set his phone in Greg's lap like a flash.

"Read it, tell me what you think. I need more data."

Lestrade glanced at the LED screen and recognized John's blog.

"So, this is the case, right? The one John mentioned to her?" Lestrade asked.

"Just read it, Greg."

He raised an eyebrow at the correct use of his name and turned his eyes to the small black text on the screen.

 _The Case of Closed Doors_

 _My flatmate Sherlock Holmes and I had decided to take a much needed holiday to Scotland. After the month of fast pace cases we had endured through, even Sherlock was beginning to wear thin. Although he would never admit it. So we took a train to Glasgow, where Sherlock insisted we see the sight of the famous 'Harvest murder'._

 _One of the main reasons I was even able to convince Sherlock to join me, was that he has this list of fascinating murder 'hotspots' that he needs to visit. And five of them happened to be located in Scotland. Lucky me._

 _However, I was grateful for my friend's presence as he was able to dissuade several police from stopping me when they saw I carried my gun without a licence. Bloody metal detectors. It was quite awkward removing my gun in full sight of fifty people and placing it in a plastic tub. But thankfully Sherlock handled it so I didn't get arrested. Perhaps I should thank his brother, but who knows what the British government is up to these days?_

 _It was quite awkward removing my gun in full sight of fifty people and placing it in a plastic tub. But thankfully Sherlock handled it so I didn't get arrested. Perhaps I should thank his brother, but who knows what the British government is up to these days?_

Sherlock had been staring at Lestrade as he read, who happened to be a slow reader. Sherlock grabbed the phone back,

"We went to the scene of a cold case from the 1970's that was on private property, realized we were being tailed when we saw men hanging about outside the fence, left through the back, went back to our hotel, and prepared to leave the next day. But unfortunately our room had been tapped, and they knew of our plan and kidnapped us right as we were preparing to leave. We next found ourselves to be in an isolated building full of angry adversaries from the past- stuff happens, we escape, the criminal ring gets arrested, back to London." Sherlock summarised rapid-fire.

Lestrade puzzled over the implications for a moment. "So, John believed that he was being tailed... but why didn't he get help?"

"For the same reason we didn't in Glasgow," Sherlock said.

"Yah, I asked because I don't know Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled, explaining everything was so tiresome.

"At the time, we had a tap in our _rooms,_ which meant that we were a better off than John was because he had a tap on him. If John hadn't spoken for a long time or removed the tap they would grow suspicious and act out. I am certain John didn't do anything because he didn't want anyone to get hurt at the retreat." he shook his head at John's idiocy.

"John, aware that he was in danger, left a message for you that he knew the people listening in wouldn't find suspicious, left the conference, and then what? I don't think he would go down without a fight like that." Lestrade grimaced.

Sherlock seemed at a loss as well or had just given up on Lestrade it was so obvious.

"I'd wager they had something on him," he muttered.

Sherlock looked at him quickly. Lestrade could barely see him in the dying light, but he saw a light spark in his eyes.

" _Yes."_ he breathed.

Lestrade couldn't help a smile. There Sherlock, he wasn't so useless after all.

"If John was aware that there was a threat, possibly a threat to the retreat, he would put that above his own safety. They put a tap on him first, to make sure he didn't leave where they wanted him, then sent him a message to say that they would hurt people if he did not come quietly. So, _he_ left a message _."_

Lestrade chuckled at how Sherlock was getting himself worked up into a frenzy.

"John is a lot smarter than you give him credit." He chided Sherlock.

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "I know."

The cab dropped them off at the hotel, and Sherlock most unexpectedly offered to pay the extremely high fee. The plan was, well, they didn't have a plan such as yet. But Greg was 100% sure that Sherlock would find a way, or a way would find them.

* * *

John peeked out of the small, almost cubby-sized window cut into the heavy iron door. All he could see was the faded red wallpaper straight across, no guards, nothing.

He was certain there were none hiding nearby, as they had made quite a racket and no one had come running.

"How do we get out?" he asked Meg.

It was getting easier to look at her without feeling a wave of sadness, but even the fact he was growing accustomed to the pain she had gone through was bitter in itself.

The skin between Meg's eye sockets furrowed.

"We are in the tunnel system, below the mansion." She offered.

That explained why he couldn't find a living soul earlier. Still... not much to go on.

"Do you know... where we are?"

" _France_ , the country of love." she chirped and twirled imaginary skirts around her ankles.

John smiled, but he knew she couldn't see him. Bloody hell... why France?

He had only been once, stopped on a deployment detour for around a week, but hadn't gotten to see much except for rolling hills and angry farmers. He certainly hadn't seen any ginormous mansions.

John had already tested the door to find it unlocked, but heading off into a tunnel system with no idea where they were going sounds pretty risky.

"Do you know any ways to get to the mansion above?"

Meg came to sit beside him against the wall.

"There is a staircase, then a flat place, then more stairs, than sunshine." She cringed. "I'm sorry, I know I'm not very helpful."

"On the contrary," John said. "You're the most helpful girl in France."

She giggled, a high bell-like laugh.

They were silent as they both thought.

"I know a way!" She exclaimed suddenly. "I- I remember now! It's outside this door, left, right, stairs, right-"

"Whoa whoa, slow down!" John laughed.

She reached out into the space between them. John hesitated only a moment before grabbing her hand.

"I can get you home John." She promised.

John stood and helped her up. The chains pooled around both their ankles.

"But, how are you going to get out?" he asked, the major problem having slipped his mind.

She smiled wickedly in response to his question. With a flick of her hand, she found the wall and led herself back to the little nest she had assembled in the corner. From within the folds of a ratty blanket, she withdrew a black bobby pin.

Meg rubbed it fondly between her fingers as she made her way back to John.

"I saved this ever since I had my hair chopped shaven off," she whispered. "It's a reminder that my life is over."

John shook his head and clasped his hands over Meg's. "No, Meg. You will survive this. I swear to you, you will live a long joyful life and this will only be in the unhappy past."

Meg took in a shaky breath and beamed widely at John. She slipped the pin into his fingers and withdrew her hands.

"Set me free my prince." She said with a theatric swoon.

"Gladly m'lady."

John knelt and started working on the shackle around her ankle, tying her to the wall. Within a minute it clicked twice and the rusty metal fell away into John's hand. When living with Sherlock Holmes, one needs to learn a few tricks.

Meg sighed as though she could taste freedom on her lips.

John took her hand. "Let's go."

They ran to the door, and just as John was reaching out to the handle... it turned. John froze as the door swung open to reveal a lab-coated Doctor and two muscly men flanking his shoulders.

Meg cried out as she realized what was happening.

The three men stared at them in shock when the young male Doctor shook his head.

"You've been naughty again Meg." He said with a frown.

Meg sobbed and let go of John's hand, running to cower in the corner. John was left alone standing down the two walls of muscle.

The Doctor looked him up and down a piece of dyed blond hair falling into his eye. John felt like he was a machine and being judged on what parts were salvageable by the man's seeking eyes.

He could take the scientist, but not for very long.

John was startled as the man smiled at him, revealing glimmering white teeth.

"Doctor Watson I presume!" He said, then chuckled as if he had told a joke. "We're here to escort you to your new home."

Meg sobbed louder at the words.

"Get him."

The two hulks surged forward in one movement. John got one in the eye, and tried to kick the other in the nuts, but the man actually _caught his foot_ in his hammy fist. John was down seconds later after a punch to the stomach, completely winding him.

The two men dragged him out the door and into the red hallway, towards a sinister looking white door.

"Have fun in surgery!" The blond scientist called cheerily after him.

.

 **A/N Hello! I've fallen in love with this series, I'm sorry if i'm dragging it on to long, I just can't seem to stop the words coming :) I'd like to thank Carlislelover1234 for their review (I'm so happy you like it!) and too Carbonone, (I apologize for the medical inaccuracies, I have no experience what so ever, but I am thrilled that my writing is fun to read :) hopefully my ending will please you if I don't get mobbed first)**

 **Love you guys, thanks for reading! N.**


	66. Sleep (part 9)

**Sleep**

 _noun-_

 _a condition of body and mind such as that which typically recurs for several hours every night, in which the nervous system is relatively inactive, the eyes closed, the postural muscles relaxed, and consciousness practically suspended._

* * *

Lestrade had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the crisp white sheets. Vaguely he knew he should be trying to get the Detective insomniac extraordinaire to sleep, but he decided to leave Sherlock be. He didn't want to upset Sherlock's state of mind further by sounding like John, who Greg knew nagged Sherlock about his well being almost daily.

John felt more free to worry about the Consulting Detective after a few pints of beer at the tavern, and Greg had often had his ear talked off. _Sherlock rarely eats the meals I make, he snacks sporadically, he sleeps so rarely Greg, it's a wonder he's still functioning._

It was true the poor bloke would run himself ragged, but sometimes he needed distractions. Like hunger or time to think in silence. Lestrade knew he would be glad of one himself, as worry for John pulsed through his body with every heartbeat. Lestrade could compare it to a toothache, ever present and bloody painful.

Lestrade couldn't help dreaming about John, tortured, bloody, dead on the floor. Steely blue eyes staring up at the stars.

* * *

Sherlock sat crossed legged in the middle of the double bed. To a passerby, they might have guessed that he was meditating. But to the contrary, instead of peaceful relaxing images floating across his mind's eye, gruesome horrors replayed over and over.

Sometimes, a mind palace would morph into a mind prison.

 _Where could John be?_

The facts provided no answers. The real question was why the faceless kidnappers have done nothing? No trail, no hints, nothing that could possibly say, 'Here I am! Come and get me so that you can get John back!'

What if John was dead, floating down a river somewhere, never to be recovered?

 _Shut up!_

No criminal acts without motive, no murderer kills without reason, twisted as it may be. No kidnapper kidnaps without... what? A ransom plea? A threatening letter? Worse intentions?

Sherlock just wanted something, _anything,_ to prove that John hadn't been wiped off the face of the Earth.

He wondered if it had been people John knew, people with a grudge, a vendetta. Most likely that would be his fault if it was. After so many cases over the years, John was almost just as hated by the criminal underclasses as he was.

Sherlock broke out of his mind palace and flopped back onto the mattress. It squealed under his weight but settled as he studied the square patterned ceiling.

 _Do not think about John, do not think about-_

 ** _DING_**

Sherlock pushed up from the bed immediately. He glanced at Greg, but his back was turned to him and his breathing was slow and even.

His phone then. He reached over to the bedside table, his curiosity peaked. Who would be texting him in the early hours of the morning?

He swiped open his lock screen and thumbed to his new messages. He stopped when he saw it was a very familiar number.

 _John Watson- 1 new message_

Fear and excitement rippled through his body and he gently tapped on John's name.

His blood ran cold.

It was a picture of John lying on a surgical table, arms and legs and neck cuffed. He was shirtless and four white-coated and masked surgeons were measuring parts of john's arms and torso. His body was covered in yellow and green bruises, some the size of a fist. His nose was broken in two parts, and there were still dried speckles of blood caking his face. Salt and pepper hair had begun to grow along his jawline, hiding part of the blood.

John's wide blue eyes were looking at the camera, and his face was full of terrified rage. It was clear he was struggling against his bonds. By far the most terrifying aspect of the photo was in the far right corner, a Doctor with his back to the camera held a syringe with dark grey liquid in it.

Either poison or a sedative. Both were equally as horrifying.

The caption under the photo said this,

 _Do you want to make a trade?_

Sherlock shivered as he met John's eyes again.

 _Deal. -SH_

 _Then get into the car parked outside of your hotel, and don't struggle. or Watson will suffer._

Sherlock quietly got out of bed and took a few seconds to scribble a note to Greg. He opened the door, then turned back to snatch his black coat.

Sherlock saw nothing as he walked through the deserted hallways, his heart beat to a steady rythmn, almost like a silent battle cry.

The car waiting in the curved driveway of the bed and breakfast was a sleek black car that Sherlock normally would have associated with Mycroft.

Sherlock wasn't surprised when a bald ex-military man stepped out from the driver's seat. His shiny head reminded Sherlock of a hard boiled egg. He approached Sherlock with no expression on his scarred, slightly squashed handed Sherlock a glass of innocent looking water.

"Drink." he grunted.

Sherlock sighed, criminals these days, and downed the glass in one gulp. Immediately the expected effect begin to take hold and Sherlock struggled to hold himself upright. His eyes glued themselves shut and he toppled into the egg man's waiting arms. Then he felt no more.


	67. Forever pt1 (part 10)

**Forever pt. 1**

 _Adjective-_

For everlasting time; eternally

* * *

John fell through darkness and gasped like a drowned man as he surfaced into consciousness. One minute he had been strapped to a table, about to be operated on, the next he was... where was he?

He was lying spread eagle on the floor of an empty room, the kind that you could tell had a past. He could see the ghosts of furniture on the dusty floor, and scab marks on the walls where ornaments and decorations had been stripped away. The windows in the room were boarded over with steel enforced beams, making that an impossible way of escape.

The stunned feeling trickled away, and suddenly it all came back to John.

Meg, the body changers, the tall man with a mask who had taken his picture. John frantically checked to see if he was intact and whole and sighed with relief when every finger, appendage, and hair was accounted for.

 _I must be in the mansion above,_ he realized.

Meg had said there was a way out somewhere... John cringed as soon as he remembered Meg. He couldn't leave this place without her, and then they would come back and set free all the other body banks.

And then there was the problem of Sherlock. He was in danger, and there was no way to get a message to him. What if he was being hunted down at this moment? There had to be some way to get out of here and find him in time.

John didn't even want to think about the fact that London was all the way across the channel and beyond.

Maybe he should do something cheesy and follow the light. There was a slight haze of sunlight in the air, and John could almost smell freshly cut grass and... _daffodils?_

John sniffed again but the scent disappeared and was replaced with something strange, the smell of mist over a pond on a rainy day. Or at least that was what came to John's mind as he smelled. It almost reminded John of Sherlock's musk, but not quite.

John stepped through the decaying doorway and looked up and down the canary yellow hallway. He was definitely in a different part of the mansion then he was before, possibly the ground floor. John couldn't see anything significant at the ends of the halls, except a plain white door on either end. But, there was another white doorway a few feet to his right, and he thought he spotted a sliver of color on the floor.

He quickly jogged to the room, letting his fingers run along the wallpaper. The color grew to reveal a black shoe, followed by a leg, which connected to a purple shirted torso. Last was a head of black curls that was turned away from him, towards the far wall of the room.

John had slowed his pace until he had completely frozen as he wondered if he was hallucinating. For there on the dusty tile floor was unmistakable the lanky body of the everybody's favorite neighborhood detective. But, of course, that was impossible. Sherlock was in London, probably drinking tea in 221B and wondering where he had gone off to.

Unless he wasn't.

" _Sherlock?"_ John whispered, not sure why he was whispering.

The body didn't move, but John could see the obvious rise and fall of the purple shirt as Sherlock breathed. John hadn't forgotten about what Meg said, but Sherlock was _here._ What if he had been captured like John had been, and had gone through the same horrors he did.

 _To hell with it,_ he thought and rushed to his best friend.

John squatted beside Sherlock's other side and gently rolled him onto his back. The Detective was out cold, his familiar face marred by a nasty looking head wound which had bled a crimson halo where he had been laying on the floor. The entire left side of his face was covered in dried brown blood, and some came off on John's fingers when he patted Sherlock's cheek lightly. A few matted curls slid from his forehead

John could see Sherlock struggling, he was still there, just under the surface. John patted more insistently and was rewarded by a soft groan passing through Sherlock's lips.

"Sherlock _come on,_ I need you right now."

John quickly checked Sherlock's pupils, pulse, and for tremors but there were no signs Sherlock was going through shock or starting it. From all the signs it looked like he had hit on the head by a blunt object in this room, fallen, and bled for a little while before it clotted and stopped.

Honestly, it was so good to see a familiar face again, and John wished heavily that they would be home soon and sitting in their chairs around the fireplace abusing the criminal classes, or the British government. John also wished to hear Sherlock's laugh again. It was always a surprise and delight whenever he good elicit a chuckle from the stoic man. Once Sherlock had cracked, more laughter was soon to follow.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, and finally, his grey eyes popped open without warning.

 **Sorry guys, didn't have time to finish this one fully today. If anymore plot twists don't appear, Forever should be the last part in this series.**


	68. Forever pt2 (part 11)

**Forever pt. 2**

" _J-John."_

A smile split John's face as Sherlock's hazy eyes focused on him. He discovered that he had missed Sherlock's low tones, either making deductions or telling him that the pig ears stuck to the ceiling were an experiment. Or simply saying his name, either way, it was good to see his friend alive and well.

It would be much easier to protect him when John knew exactly where he was. With a grunt, he looped his arms under Sherlock's shoulders and heaved him up so he was sitting comfortably against the wall. The detective still looked out of it and kept shaking his head making his hair dance around his ears.

John winced as Sherlock's shoulders convulsed and he retched to the side, throwing up slush and a tiny trace of blood. The horrendous smell of intestinal fluids quickly filled up the small room, and John tried to decide whether Sherlock was well enough to move.

No nasal drainage. No sign of the dark splotches around his eyes that would indicate periorbital ecchymosis, not to mention he was cognitively aware and able to recognize John's face. No bloody drainage from the ear which ruled out the progression of a Battle's sign in a few days. He was looking good.

Sherlock was going to be fine, just probably would suffer from a headache for up to two weeks. But, Sherlock's bloodless face worried him. What if there were other injuries as well?

"Sherlock do you remember what happened?" he whispered, knowing that Sherlock would be sensitive to sound.

The detective squinted at him for a moment, the moment of clarity over John's identity suddenly lost.

"Sherlock, it's me. John Watson, your flatmate."

He just shook his head and his lips disappeared as he tried to hold back more bile.

John was about to ask him again when he froze. He held a steady hand at Sherlock, directing him to be quiet. Thankfully Sherlock took the hint and stopped squirming. John tilted his head towards the door and listened hard, trying to pick out the sound he had heard.

 _There,_ a very quiet noise, it sounded like a female scream.

John rose to his feet, completely silent, and tiptoed to the door, where he peeked out of the empty doorframe. There was that flowery smell again, immediately bringing an image of his mother's garden patch of yellow daffodils into his head. The hall was completely empty, save for a few rogue dust bunnies.

"Sherlock we need to move, _now._ " John said, coming back to the curled up Detective.

He had covered his head in his arms as if trying to shield himself from the pain coming from within.

John wanted to comfort him, treat his wound then give him a cuppa whilst he relaxed watching crap telly, but here they were trapped in a murderous cult's house with no way out.

He extended his hand to Sherlock, putting all his unspoken words into the offer of assistance.

Right now there was no time for Doctor John Watson. What Sherlock really needed was Captain John Watson.

Sherlock grimaced and accepted John's hand, letting John pull him to his feet. Sherlock immediately began to sway dangerously and latched onto John's shoulder like it was a root on the edge of a precipice. John supported his surprisingly heavy friend as they limped to the door like contestants in a three-legged race.

If anyone were to give chase to them, they would be done for by Sherlock's present condition.

"You can do it Sherlock," John encouraged, knowing that he was unlikely to understand at the moment.

After a few empty halls and rooms, John left Sherlock leaning against a wall to do some reconnaissance. He peaked into a few rooms with bricked up windows before he got too paranoid and rushed back to Sherlock.

An hour or so had gone by with sparse conversation mostly by John, and Sherlock was finally starting to look better. He wasn't needing John's support as much, and a spark had returned to his previously dulled eyes.

John decided to press his luck and asked, "Do you remember what happened to you?"

Sherlock thought a moment before clearing his throat. "Uhm, I was in a hotel, got a picture of y-you tied to a table, was drugged-d, woke up here, and t'ere was a man wearing a-a plain white mask, made from a t-thermosetting polymer. He had gray-green eyes and was roughly 1.6 meters tall." he slurred.

"Hmm, not exactly what I was looking for, but still good to know. That's the same man that interrogated me and took a picture of me, I wonder if he is the guy who..." John trailed off, realizing that he probably shouldn't tell Sherlock he had a doppelganger who was bent on killing him just yet.

Sherlock touched his head wound gingerly. "Who what J-John?"

"Ah... who is the boss around here. He seemed to be giving, not following orders." John half lied.

Sherlock stumbled over his feet, tripped and nearly collapsed onto the ground before John caught him.

He hadn't the faintest why they had not stumbled across a door, a passage, or even a staircase. From the way Meg had talked, there sounded to be many, many staircases. But the only regular things were cast iron lamps every few feet and dust bunnies floating in the wind.

Sherlock was basically out for the count. He could tell Sherlock was mentally at war with himself, not to mention the fact that the leopard man had known a head wound would severely disable him was frightening. John wondered just how much the man knew of their lives, how much he had watched them without them ever knowing.

Meg had said they train for their whole lives to become their assignment. John doubted that if the boss ever murdered Sherlock and took his place, he would even notice the difference. Sherlock was rarely chummy, and it wouldn't be hard to put on a cold, hard exterior and become Sherlock.

Quite suddenly John became afraid that he might be helping the wrong man hobble down the hallway, trying to get the wrong Sherlock away from this place and back to London. John's heart beat furiously, and he actually considered dropping Sherlock (or not Sherlock?) and running far far away. But he had to be rational.

There was a seriously injured man standing next to him, suffering from a concussion and maybe even brain damage. He was left lying, bleeding out on the floor. And there was a chance John might not have even found him, and he could have died in that lonely room. Suddenly he remembered something. If it wasn't Sherlock, he would have scars right? Scars from the plastic surgery and botox injections, any small raised flesh that would pinpoint the skin they had had to remove.

John stopped then and carefully let go of Sherlock so he could rest against the wall. It still might be his friend after all.

"Sherlock, I need you to take off your shirt." he found himself saying.

Sherlock didn't even question his intentions, just laid his head back and hissed in pain.

"I-it hurts too much John." he wheezed.

John groaned inwardly, and trying not to think about the fact he was undressing his best friend or his best friend's _body,_ he started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. He didn't try to bat his hands away, or cry, 'No John, there is nothing to see!' or anything suspicious, but that could be a tactic all in its own.

Sherlock helped some and shrugged the purple fabric off of his shoulders evidently thinking John needed to check him for signs of something or other boring medical reasons.

He looked like the exact same person John had lived with for five years since Mary's death and before, the lean, thin Detective who refused to eat on cases and slept like a baby, every few hours he was up and experimenting again. But there was one last place he had to check.

"Turn around," John instructed. "I need to check for... intestinal bruising."

Sherlock shuffled around to face the wall, not even looking to watch John's reaction. John felt his heart flutter in sadness.

The criss-cross pattern of pink lines told stories of torture and pain, encompassing Sherlock's entire back. John recognized keloid scars, a few contracture scars on Sherlock's arms (no wonder he wears long sleeves all the time), and even a few painful-looking Hypertrophic scars scattered on his right side. These should cause Sherlock extreme aches, and bodily stiffness but John had never noticed him exhibit such symptoms.

These were the scars that John had glimpsed over the collar of a dressing gown, partially concealed by a sheet, snatches of skin raised enough to make patterns on the back of a t-shirt. John had seen them but never gotten enough courage to ask about.

These were the scars from the two years Sherlock had left. The two years spent disabling Moriarty's criminal empire, and no one else but Mycroft (assumably) had ever realized the extent of that until now.

Just a cautionary glance across his hairline to check for any tell-tale lines there, but then John was sure.

This was his Sherlock.

John coughed roughly. "Alright, mate seems like you're doing well. You can put your shirt on now."

While he waited, John wondered if Sherlock would remember and realize he had willingly shown John his scars. He hoped he wouldn't be cross about it.

John decided to see if Sherlock could be of any help. He quickly summarized the predicament of the missing staircases for Sherlock, but couldn't seem to meet his eyes for the duration of it.

Sherlock hummed and looked up and down the dimly lit corridor they were in. John held his breath, waiting for Sherlock to say 'the staircases are right below our feet John, it's obvious.' but Sherlock simply shook his head and returned to humming Bach.

John was very worried about him. They needed to get out of here soon, so Sherlock could get to a hospital and an MRI machine.

John sighed and began to inspect the twisted iron of the lamp shedding it's soft white light on the corridor. It looked like something that would be found in a medieval castle, not a modern French mansion. Maybe the ginormous house was older than he thought. Or just some parts of it were. When John thought of old castles, one thing sprang to mind.

Secret passages.

John felt a hand close around his bicep. "Come on-n John, let's keep moving. I t-think I see daylight up ahead." Sherlock said.

"No, wait." John replied, his eyes still fixed on the out of place lamp.

It sat about a foot over his head, taunting him with an electric hiss. Sherlock tugged on his arm gently, but John ignored him. Feeling really cheesy, he reached up and his fingers closed around the arm of the lamp. He pulled, and the metal didn't respond for a moment frustrating John. He pulled harder and it gave way with a POP and a _screech._

John was amazed when a panel the size of a man slid back from the innocent looking brickwork and exposed a wooden staircase leading down.

"Yes!" John exclaimed.

They had found the tunnels! They could rescue Meg, and get out of this place.

Sherlock had stopped humming behind him.

John stuck his head inside the tunnel and looked down the staircase which led into blackness. He could smell the stale cold air that he had detected when he had first been interrogated.

"I think t-that's a bad idea, John." Sherlock rumbled.

John jumped as his voice sounded close to his ear. He patted Sherlock's shoulder comfortingly, "There's no other way." he said.

"Perhaps we could go-" Sherlock started, but John had already started waltzing down the steps.

Sherlock frowned and continued after John's footsteps, trailing his hands along the stone walls so he wouldn't fall.

"How you doing up there?" John asked after a minute of darkness and silence.

"Just dandy." Sherlock snapped back.

"You migh- Oomph!"

John had run straight into a heavy door, the impact rattling his aching bones. Sherlock heard the noise and stopped before he ran into John.

"Well that smarts." he muttered, gingerly prodding his broken nose to check for the reemergence of blood.

Luckily it just stung like hell.

"John."

"Hmm?"

"Are you going to open the door?"

"Oh righ' sorry." John said, he started to seek out the handle, and found it to be a stiff metal bar.

He bent it back, cringing as it moaned loudly, and slowly pushed the door outwards. They were in the same red wallpaper hallway that Meg's cell had been in, the color reminding him of fresh blood.

Sherlock pushed past him with his usual lack of manners and started to walk the opposite direction of Meg's cell.

"Sher, let's go this way okay?" John called quietly, trying to reason with Sherlock's retreating back.

"This way looks much more inviting!" Sherlock called back.

John groaned and jogged to meet him. He grabbed the delusional idiot's arm and started to drag him the other way, towards the operating room door and Meg's cell.

"But John-"

"No Sherlock, we're going to rescue my friend first. She needs us." he insisted.

Ignoring Sherlock's splutters, they reached the steel door with the small opening John had peered out mere hours ago. John flung the door open, expecting to find Meg in her nest with her chains pooled around her.

He did not expect to see Sherlock Holmes sitting in the center of the room, tied to a chair, with his chin resting on his chest. When he heard the sound of the door, his head flew up and John was met with the painfully familiar gray eyes. This Sherlock was clothed in Belstaff, scarf, and exact same purple shirt.

Sherlock #2's eyes widened in shock.

"John?..." he questioned.

Then his eyes got even wider as his copy came into the room, wearing the exact same expression.

"What the hell?" Sherlock #1 said.

One of these Sherlock was a vile murderer who wanted to kill his best friend. Except, there were two of them. The fake couldn't act out without exposing himself, so it seemed like for now they were playing along. There were two Sherlocks, _Oh God help me..._

Sherlock #2 was studying #1, looking more curious than aggravated.

"Do I really look that gangly?" he wondered aloud.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" #1 asked, and sized up the copycat in the chair.

If John was anyone else he would run screaming from the building and wouldn't stop running until the real Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair sipping tea. But unfortunately, his loyalty wouldn't let him leave his best friend alone with a doppelganger with murderous intent.

John wasn't sure why the fake wasn't at the real one's throat right now. He needed to kill the real one to take over his life, so why hasn't- _Ohhhh._

They had failed about taking John out, so now he was part of the game. The fake needed John's confirmation of his identity, so he was trying to trick him now. John was certain #1 didn't have any surgical scars, having confirmed that in the hall. He doubted the one in the chair would be just as willing for an inspection. So he would have to play his cards very carefully.

"Sherlock?" he asked slowly.

"Yes?" Both answered immediately, scowls of annoyance appearing on their faces.

 _Damn, they're good._

"Vatican Cameos."

They both ducked, #1 dropping onto the floor, and #2 bending at the waist. When nothing happened, they simultaneously scoffed.

"John if you are trying to find out who is the right one, I can assure you it is me." #2 said from the chair.

"Don't be ridiculous." #1 growled. "John, you know I'm me."

"John, don't listen to the imposter!"

"You're the imposter, bugger off."

"You little-"

"John-"

"STOP IT!" John bellowed.

Both jumped, both looked incredulously hurt.

"John, please, I swear it's me." #2 says.

"Be quiet." #1 spits. "John, I don't think we have much time. We need to leave."

"No you don't! You can't go stealing my life that easily!" #2 yells.

"I said, stop it! Listen to me both of you!" John growled with authority. "Whoever is the real one (That's me! Shut up, liar!), you are doing _exactly what the fake one wants_. You are playing to each other. You know who you are but I don't. Stop acting like an idiot, Sherlock."

#2 stops and looks thoughtful. #1 scowls and looks out the door for any guards.

"John," #2 said, he turned to look at him. "Yesterday I was at Oxford college, talking to Professor-"

"Hammond." #1 interrupts from the door.

John held up his hand for #1 to be quiet. "You'll both have a turn girls."

"and she told me about the message you left me, _the case of the closed doors,_ and how you were threatened to leave quietly or else the retreat would be raided."

John nodded. That much was true.

"I was also at Oxford yesterday," #1 speaks up. "She told me about how you were acting nervous and tried to tell her about the tap but she didn't understand."

#2's face blanks for a moment before his mouth opened in a round ' _O'._

"You put a tap on me!" he accuses. "That's how you know what she said!"

"Are you confessing what _you_ did? Can I get that in writing?"

John felt like screaming at the two toddlers fighting over his attention.

"John, I can tell you what the last thing you said to me before you left was." #1 said.

#2 looked guilty for a moment, "I must have deleted it, Please John, don't listen to him."

"You said, _don't forget to give Mrs. Hudson the cake I made her on Tuesday for her birthday."_ #1 quoted.

"And did you?" John asked them both.

"Well no," #2 answered first. "Like I just said, I deleted it."

"I remembered," #1 said. "But I forgot that I put it in the microwave and ruined the cake."

#2 cringed. "Yeah, that's true too. That's why I deleted it."

Honestly, they both sounded like things the real Sherlock would do. This was so pointless, it was time to pull out the big guns. No time to feel guilty yet.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from the most uncaring person in the world," John said, laying it on thick. "You're just a freak after all."

John's heart fell in shame as #2 looked like he had been slapped while #1 looked mildly amused. The fake wouldn't know about Sherlock's insecurities, only a person who had taken the time to see Sherlock's heart would know how much that word hurts.

The real Sherlock hunched in on himself in the chair, and John tried to catch his eye. When he succeeded, he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head to show he hadn't meant what he said, and he knew he was the real one.

Sherlock nodded, his countenance lightening considerable.

The fake Sherlock was still rambling on about Mrs. Hudson, still not having realized the game was up. John walked over to him, trying hard not to let his repulsion show on his face, and with his back to Sherlock, he whispered, "I know you're real, we better get out of here fast before we get caught."

Fake Sherlock gave him an understanding nod. He turned on his heel, prepared to walk out of the door. That's when John grabbed him in a chokehold.

Sherlock was a strong man, stamina, and endurance built up from criminal chases around London. But the brute strength of this man nearly overwhelmed John.

Fake Sherlock bucked and struggled under John's grip, and soon they had fallen. John compressing the doppelganger's windpipe while he was thrown about like a ragdoll.

"Get him, yeah right there, wrap your leg around him John, no no don't do that, oh! Shake it off John, come on, press harder!" Sherlock cheered as John was pummeled.

It felt wrong yet strangely satisfying to be choking what looked like his best friend. After a particularly hard headbutt to the stomach, John was sure he would go flying off into the wall if he was hit anymore. But just as he thought that the man's struggles slowed to a snail's pace.

Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness.

"You're not winning today Bastard." John spat at Sherlock's (not sherlock's) lifeless body.

Sherlock whooped appreciatively from the chair, and John rushed to untie his ropes. Finally, they were both free. But they still had to get out of here first.

John still didn't understand a few things however. "Sherlock, he had _no_ scars from the surgery, well he had your scars, but those weren't _the_ scars..." John ended up spluttering incomprehensible as he remembered the terrible sight.

The procedure must have been so exact... he must have had that torture done to him months and months ago for them to heal like that...

Sherlock shrugged the ropes from his hands as John finished.

"You see but do not observe John," he said and walked over to his mirror image.

With a flick of his long fingers, he removed the head of curls sitting atop the imposter's head. _A wig!_ The skin underneath revealed taunt, day old scars, so precise and perfect it made John gasp in awe.

 _ **Creakkkkkkkk...**_

They both jumped as what felt like the entire structure of the mansion groaned above them.

"Oh no, they're trying to hide the evidence!" Sherlock yelled.

He bolted out the door, followed by John who spared a fleeting glimpse for the unconscious man. He was a dead man now.

They ran up the hallway before John heard a different noise, screaming of humans.

"Sherlock wait!" John yelled, and turned around.

He bolted back down the hallway to the operating room where he had nearly been torn apart for spare parts. He could hear fists hammering on the metal door, from the inside.

John remembered that the door only opens from the outside. He wrenched it open to reveal a mass of sobbing screaming people, who all quickly fell silent when the door opened. They were all body banks just like Meg. John searched the crowd, but did not see Meg's distinctive form anywhere amongst them.

"Where is Meg?" He shouted, but no one answered him.

"I'm here to rescue you!" he shouted over the creaking of the infrastructure. "Everybody hold hands!"

He didn't give them time to sort it out, just grabbed the fingerprint-less hand of the man nearest to him and pulled, relieved to see them form a chain. John was genuinely surprised to find sherlock had indeed waited for them, and was anxiously waiting at the bottom of a staircase that led up.

"Brilliant Sherlock!" John shouted. "Lead the way!"

Sherlock took the hint and started running up the steps, taking them two at a time.

They climbed another staircase, sprinted through a secret tunnel, up a concealed door, and entered into a bricked off hall which was clearly the foyer outside. The doors were unlocked and Sherlock flung them open, leading the strange looking train out of danger.

The sun was bright and glaring, and it hurt John's eyes. They ran a few more steps before a few people in the middle collapsed, and all of them started sobbing with renewed vigor and hugged the ground.

John wondered how long some of these people had been in captivity. He hoped they still had families they could go back too.

He spotted Sherlock a few feet away. He jogged to him and joined him as they stared at the crumbling house. It was huge, rivaling Buckingham in all aspects. And it was crumbling like an old gingerbread house left to long in the sun.

"How are they doing that?" John asked.

He wasn't as devasted as he thought he'd be because the case never really wrapped itself up. The body changers were still out there, this had been just a branch, and surely whoever wasn't dying right nnow was getting away. But really he was happy to be alive, and happy they had freed so many people.

"They flooded the tunnels." Sherlock groaned unhappily.

 _Oh no. Oh God no!_

He had forgotten, how could he have forgotten?

He left Sherlock staring curiously at him and ran back into the melee of injured souls.

"Has anybody talked to a girl named Meg? She's a body bank too, she was down there!" John shouted in dismay.

He was about to start shouting again when he felt a tug on his sleeve. A little girl with one clear blue eye stared up at him. She had to be around six.

"Meggie died today," she whispered. Somehow John heard her perfectly. "The bad man was going to take you apart, but Meh volunteered to take your place. And the boss agreed."

The girl walked away and joined a small boy with no arms sitting on the ground.

John walked slowly back to Sherlock, feeling very very small. Sherlock was watching him, true concern written on his face.

"John, who was Meg?" he asked, reaching out and taking his shoulder.

"My guardian angel." John said, before he broke down sobbing.

Sherlock ended up hugging him tightly, and was still hugging him as the helicopters arrived to take them back to England.

.

 **The End! Thanks for reading, please review! I think I'm gonna go sleep for a day, and rewatch Sherlock.**

 **Ta ta, Nabrun**


	69. Rain

**Rain**

 _noun-_

 _moisture condensed from the atmosphere that falls visibly in separate drops._

* * *

John stormed out of 221B, slamming the door with gusto. Luckily Mrs. H wasn't home, or she would be at John's throat as well.

Everyone seemed to be against him today. The thunder rumbled over his head, echoing like Sherlock's fiery remonstrations.

 _"You could have talked to me, you could have said anything." John had whispered._

 _"Don't you know I can take care of myself? I don't need you John, your constant worry, your nagging."_

 _"I'm just trying to help you!"_

 _"Well you should know by now I don't need anyone's help!"_

 _"Clearly! You starve yourself of food and sleep, claiming that it inhibits you, but really I can't help but wonder if all you want is the distraction from your boredom! Is this just a long ranging experiment to see how long you can last like this until you die?!"_

 _Sherlock had drawn himself up to his full height at the words, and John had realized he had actually crossed a line._

 _But John had come too far to back down without making a point._

 _"If you don't need anyone's concern, fine! It's not like I have to care about your wellbeing, you can do whatever you want to, after all, you're a grown man." He had put all of his spite and hurt into the words 'grown man' as if implying that Sherlock should start acting like one._

 _It had made him even more frustrated when Sherlock turned his back on him and snatched his violin._

 _If he was going to ignore him just like that, that was the bloody last straw._

 _He turned his back and marched out of the door, determined not to come back until Sherlock had apologized and realized the fact that John cared about him._

After an agonizingly long day at the surgery he had come home, just wanting to take a peaceful kip before Sherlock inevitably dragged him out to hunt for clues in the eternally long Donner case. But he had come home to a raging Detective and a flat full of police officers.

Lestrade was all apologies, _I'm sorry for the intrusion, we had a tip off from a druggie that he saw Sherlock buying, just needed to check..._

Then it had all gone down hill when Anderson of all people spotted a corner of a plastic bag sticking out from under the toilet seat. They discovered a hollowed out compartment with barely distinguishable hinges, concealing the tiny bags of drugs perfectly.

There had to be over a hundred quids worth of cocaine, and it had been sitting right under John's nose the entire time. John had gone quiet after they found the drugs, and uncovered two other small stashes in the bedroom and under a floorboard.

Sherlock had retreated to the living room and glared daggers at anyone who turned their eyes his way. John just silently watched the proceedings from the corner of the kitchen, overwhelming guilt and anger bubbling in his stomach. Lestrade gave him a few pitying glances, and John could tell he wanted to talk.

John was furious at the world at the time and trudged out of the kitchen and up to his room where he stayed until he was sure everyone was gone.

He knew Sherlock was still home from the growls of frustration and the resonating bangs below.

He thought for a long time what to say to Sherlock, but no words seemed to ring true or sit with any conviction on his tongue.

John felt like a failure to his friend. He was a Doctor for God's sake, and he hadn't noticed the signs. Or maybe his blind devotion and trust in Sherlock had purged the thought from his head before it ever appeared.

Eventually, he decided he had to go down sometime, and flew by the seat of his pants.

Obviously, that had turned out to have disastrous consequences. Sherlock lashed out at him immediately, from embarrassment or anger, John didn't know. And he just had to bite right back didn't he? Ugh, Sherlock was so hard to deal with sometimes.

Thunder boomed again, rolling across the sky like a sonic wave.

Now John regretted leaving in such a hurry. Maybe he could sneak back and grab an umbrella? No, probably not the best idea with a genius pouting upstairs.

John stuck his hands deep in his pockets and trudged down the sidewalk away from the warm hearth and a strong cuppa. He had no clue where he was going, but he sure wasn't going to back down for the sake of a little rain.

With that thought, it became a torrential downpour.

 _Damn I jinxed it._

* * *

 **DING**

John startled out of his light sleep, and flopped around so that he could grab his phone from the nightstand.

The clock read 11:49. It had now been five hours since he left, and he was still feeling utterly depressed. He had found a little hotel on the outskirts of London after wandering for a few hours and caving in to buy a cab. The cabbie took one look at him and snorted, "Did the lady kick ya out mate?"

"Heh, close enough." John had grunted as he squelched into the leather seat.

He remembered the text message and pressed on imessage.

Oh ho big surprise. Five new texts from Sherlock. All in the past five minutes, strange...

The cocky smile slid off of John's face as he read them.

 _John, are you in trouble? Why have you been gone so long? -SH_

 _Mycroft tracked your credit card and he said you're staying at a hotel. You know you can come back right? -SH_

 _John, I know you are probably asleep right now, but if you are still cross with me, you could come home and we could discuss your problems. -SH_

 _Dammit John! Can you look at your bloody phone? Just come home please. -SH_

 _Fine. You win. I am sorry for the way I treated you. I know you 'worry', and I am sorry I caused you pain. Can you come home and treat me Doctor? -SH_

John smiled widely. Sherlock really did have feelings when he wanted too.

 _On my way. -JW_

 **A/N Don't do drugs my lovely readers, it's not anything to joke or laugh about. Nabrun**


	70. Box

_(Read bottom for important Author's note)_

 **Box**

 _noun-_

 _a container with a flat base and sides, typically square or rectangular and having a lid._

* * *

Molly Hooper screamed.

She had nearly fallen face first as she let herself into Baker-street. She had managed to skirt around the obstacle and stumbled into the oak door. She turned to face the offending object just as Mrs. Hudson peeked her head out of 221C.

"You alright deary?" Mrs. Hudson called.

"Uhm, yes just dandy."

Molly was distracted as she bent down and examined the oddly shaped box that had been placed on the step outside the door. It was made of wood and came up to Molly's knees, it was obvious something was being shipped to Sherlock or John.

The intriguing thing was the round dome protruding out of the side, with a circle cut out of the box. From Molly's careful examination of it, it appeared to be an extension of the object inside. Molly wondered why the shipper didn't just get a bigger box.

She peered at the gray dome, and felt an urge to touch it.

"Mrs. Hudson, why did a female just cry out in the foyer?" Sherlock's voice called from above.

"It's Molly dear, she just tripped over your package!"

Molly reached out a hesitant finger and sat on her heels so she could see the extent of the mass. She paused for a moment when the sound of a loud bang reached her ears. It sounded like someone had just tripped and fell.

Molly decided to go see if Sherlock was alright. She only made it two stairs up when the man himself came barreling around the corner and nearly tripped for a second time as he skidded in a pair of green wooly socks. Molly giggled behind her hand. She could do with some warm socks herself, considering the chilly weather.

"Molly don't touch it!" Sherlock shouted quite unnecessarily as she was standing on the steps with a confused expression.

Sherlock sprinted down the stairs and looked her up and down for a moment, checking for something, before running on to the peculiar box.

Mrs. Hudson and fully emerged from her apartment and was hovering curiously by the stairs.

"What is it dear?" She asked.

Sherlock turned around to face her. He had an excited glee painted on his usually composed features.

"This, Mrs. Hudson is the future of crime solving." He pointed to the dome. "You place a criminal's hand on this, it scans their thoughts and intentions by-"

"Hello, every-"

John had appeared in the open door during Sherlock's speech and had immediately tripped over the large box and toppled onto Sherlock's back. They fell in a tangle of limbs and grunts.

Molly couldn't contain her laughter, and burst out shrieking in glee. Mrs. Hudson soon joined as the Detective and the Doctor struggled to separate themselves. Soon everyone was laughing.

 **A/N** **Hello! Just have a quick important announcement to make, I decided I'll be taking the weekends off from Daily Occurrences so that I can work on other writing and maybe stockpile these in advance. I'm going to be starting a new fic soon, I'm really excited about it as well! Keep your eyes peeled :)**

 **N.**


	71. Suits

**Suit**

 _noun-_

 _a set of outer clothes made of the same fabric and designed to be worn together, typically consisting of a jacket and trousers or a jacket and skirt._

* * *

Why did Molly have to insist that the bridegrooms wear suits to her wedding? He, on the one hand would be perfectly fine, but John, he was a whole different story. The only atrociously old suit the man owned had been irreplaceably damaged, and that was how the Detective and the Doctor went shopping on the Tuesday before the wedding.

The Holmes had no idea what boredom was like until this moment. Except for yesterday, and the day before that, and before that...

He had no thoughts in the stormy ocean of his brain, he could feel his ship sinking slowly into the black water.

"Well? How does it look?" John Watson asked.

His churning sea banished him into the living world and he glared at John who was appraising the soft material clinging to his chest. He pivoted around trying to assess the suit's fit in the mirror. Sherlock leaned back into the well-shaped sofa and flicked his hand in nonchalance.

"Whatever floats your boat." Sherlock drawled.

The crisp tweed blazer John had insisted on trying on wasn't much to Sherlock's taste, but he had to admit the way the grey-blue brought out John's eyes was quite fitting.

John frowned and the dimple between his eyebrows emerged as he inspected himself from every angle.

"What would you suggest?"

Sherlock smiled having been waiting for this moment. He leapt up with new energy and snatched a worsted wool, two button suit off of the gleaming rack.

"Best in the store," Sherlock promised as he passed it delicately into John's hands.

John examined it with wide eyes, then winced as his eyes found the price tag.

"If you'd like it could be your early birthday present." Sherlock offered.

"Ah, no. I don't want to look exactly like you every time I wear it."

The Detective raised and John subconsciously groaned as he saw his brain grind into action.

"Try it on," Sherlock purred. " _please._ "

 _Oh no, he said please._

"I'll tell you a secret?" Sherlock continued, obviously grasping at straws.

He hit him playfully on the arm, satisfied when Sherlock winced. "I'm not a kid Sherlock," John growled.

Sherlock waggled his brows at John, deducing from his grimace and defeated posture that he was close to cracking.

John moaned, "Fine! But you owe me takeout."

He disappeared into the changing room making the curtain swoosh around him.

And that was the story of how John Watson arrived at Molly Hooper's wedding looking like the slightly shorter copy of London's detective. He promptly hid the suit out of sight after that excursion.

Sherlock would never admit to it, but he had taken enough photos to share with all of Scotland Yard.

 **Hello lovelies, sorry for the two short pieces, I've been busy trying to get my Youtube channel up and running again! Please review 3**


	72. Bloodsport (part 1)

**Bloodsport**

 _noun-_

 _a sport involving the shedding of blood._

* * *

The atmosphere of the crowded pub pulsed like a beating heart. To many people, too little space. And it didn't help that men were constantly pushing and shoving each other, braying like wounded mules. The air encircled John's neck and seemed to draw the breath from his very lips.

"Hurry up John! We have to make it to the back before they close the gates!" Sherlock Holmes cried and snatched John's cuff, pulling him through the seething crowd.

Based on a suspicious tip off from one of Sherlock's homeless network (John still didn't trust them after he found out they helped with Sherlock's 'death'), the criminal fighting ring Scotland Yard had been looking for had based its operations in the back room of this ghetto pub for one night only.

Woo hoo.

Sherlock tugged viciously only John's arm as he slithered through the horde like an invisible snake. John was as much stealthy as an elephant stomping through a field of grass. He kept getting sideways looks from men toned enough to be professional wrestlers. He was okay until a foot appeared out of nowhere and he went sprawling, still being pulled along by the impatient Holmes.

"HEY!"

Two massive fists clamped around John's shoulders, and he found himself looking up into the face of well, it didn't look like anything really, more like a child's drawing of a man where there are odd lumps everywhere and they forget features. This man seemed to be missing half a nose.

"Sorry mate didn't mean to bump into you," John said placatingly.

Sherlock appeared hovering behind his left side.

"YOU CAN'T GET IN. WE'RE CLOSED NOW." The man still holding onto John with a death grip yelled quite loudly.

Oh, so this was the bouncer. What a delightful evening John was having.

 _Please don't punch me,_ he prayed silently.

One hit from those boulder hands and he'd be out for weeks.

Sherlock stepped up from behind John, right, now he would be proofless and we'd have to go back to waiting before we caught wind of another location.

Sherlock seemed to be thinking fast, _uh oh._

He was utterly insane, John thought, as Sherlock clapped the man on his meaty shoulder. A bright smile emerged on his face, and he grinned drunkenly at John's captor.

Good gosh his acting was bloody perfect.

"'ut Sir, you gotta let 'im in," Sherlock hiccuped. "He's a f-f-fighter tonigh' he's gonna clobber everyone!"

 _No, no, no, no, Sherlock Holmes I'm going to bloody kill you._

The hulk's face barely shifted, but John's feet rejoined the ground as he was released.

"I'll be watching your figh'," he rumbled. "Can't wait to see the Thunderbolt get at ya."

The bouncer opened the doors that John hadn't noticed before, and pushed him in front. John barely noticed Sherlock sneak in as the door closed.

The small theater-like space was packed, even more so than the outside pub. The room reminded John of a roman theater, how rows of seating were stacked upon each other with an oval placed in the center. Each row was lined with enough thugs to flood Scotland Yard over with paperwork. And in front of John were bloodstained steps leading down into the pit.

John looked around and caught Sherlock's eye, he was standing behind the last row, trying to sneak closer to the back steps. Sherlock nodded at the oval with wide eyes saying, _Get down there right now John I don't want to get caught by a hundred angry criminals._

The bouncer pushed him once again, sending John stumbling down the steps. The crowd jeered and booed when they saw him, and John was roughly pushed twice as he descended. He kept his eyes on the floor even as a wet substance caught on his cheek. Saliva.

He reached the enclosed oval, and was enveloped in a sort of mosh pit of fighters, all gearing up to punch each other in the face. John snuck one last look at Sherlock, who seemed now very far away. He could see the Detective give him a thumbs up, and he turned away.

"Blast it," John growled and started to unbutton his shirt so he could blend in.

If he was going to do this, he wouldn't go down without a fight.


	73. Punch (part 2)

**Punch**

 _verb-_

 _To strike with the fist._

* * *

Roars filled with a wild hunger for blood filled the amphitheater as the first pair of fighters stepped into the ring from opposite sides.

John wondered if he could sneak away out of the queue, but then he heard the bellow of the bouncer an octave below the rest. If John slipped away, Sherlock might not have enough time to get the pictures they needed to arrest Samuelson, the leader of the ring before the bounder found them and kicked them out. John bit his lip anxiously as he prayed that Samuelson had decided to watch the fight tonight.

He couldn't see over the heads of the eager crowd leaning over the barrier, but he could hear the grunts and sounds of force on skin as the fight continued.

" _Oh! It looks like the boulder is out of the count for tonight!"_ A magnified voice screamed suddenly.

John startled and looked around. He couldn't see where the voice was coming from, but he spotted two speakers mounted high on the wall, blasting the voice throughout the room.

That must be Samuelson, but how can he see the fight?

He must be hidden, of course, he wouldn't want to put himself in the spotlight, he could potentially be in harm's way.

John had no doubt that Sherlock would find him, he just wished he would hurry up about it.

Another man burst into the ring, only to get brought out on a makeshift stretcher with a swelling eye and fractured wrist. The original fighter must be quite good. Another went in, then another, _then another..._

How long had John been standing there? It felt like an hour had passed, but he knew no more than half that time could have elapsed. Unable to watch, John stood there listening to the cacophony of violence from the ring, punctuated by the occasional commentary from the invisible Samuelson.

 _What was taking Sherlock so long?_

John was trying to hover at the back of the group, unseen and unbothered. But unfortunately, someone had been watching him.

He felt a hand slap him on the shoulder, and John winced as his bare skin stung from the impact.

"The line is long tonigh' ain't it?" The bouncer rumbled, reminding John of thunder booming across the horizon. "Everyone wants a crack at the thunderbolt, but no one can touch 'im."

"Ah yeah, I've been wondering who-" John started.

He smiled, and John noticed he was missing an array of teeth. "Don' worry, you'll ge' your turn." he interrupted. "I can help with tha'."

"Oh no, that's fine, you don't have to-"

"HEY YOU GRIMY LOT! THIS FELLOW IS GOING NEXT!" The bouncer bellowed over all the noise.

Faces turned to them from all over the arena.

 _Hurry up Sherlock!_

John felt hands pulling at him, and he was dragged up to the front of the crowd. With one last push he was thrown onto a heavy metal door that swung open from the inside, reaching up to his waist. The groove dug into his hips as the weight of the crowd behind him surged forward.

He could now see the entire fighting oval, and noted with a grim smile that it was spattered with a slurry of grime and blood. John's eyes were next drawn to the figure standing in middle of the far side.

The Thunderbolt, _oh no no no no._

He had seen him before, _he had seen this man before._

But instead of wearing green camo and shouldering an L7A2, he was naked down to a pair of shorts and was still in the peak condition that John couldn't maintain from his army days.

Captain Reynold Smith, dishonorable discharged after deserting the field regiment during The Battle of Em'ler.

John hadn't been there, but he had seen him leave. He remembered the regiment trudging out of camp, no hope in their eyes. Being led by the only one in camp brave enough to lead them to certain death with a smile on his face.

That night he returned alone. Captain Smith hadn't smiled anymore.

He had left soon after his disgrace, and John hadn't heard of him again. But there were always the stories of men's courage failing them in battle, and John couldn't help feeling a teensy bit sad for him at the time. He had lost it all after one moment of hesitation, one heartbeat of fear.

John knew Reynold would recognize him, as they had talked many times. It had been a perfect friendship, the Captain who needed a friend, and the Captain who didn't fit in except with his patients.

But clearly Reynold had taken a wrong turn on the road of life.

Reynold's last opponent was being dragged out on a blanket, both arms broken from the elbow down.

He was going in there next.

John tried to back away, but hands opened the door and pushed him inside the arena.

Reynold looked up, and their eyes met.

 **Last chapter tomorrow! I lost the last part of this chapter three times, so if it seems a little rushed, that's why. If you are interested in writing, check out my newly launched writing blog! You can find the link in my profile.**


	74. Brawl (part 3)

**Brawl**

 _noun-_

 _a rough or noisy fight or quarrel._

* * *

John watched apprehensively as Reynold's face circled through a flurry of emotion; shock, anger, then amusement.

The crowd of thugs was certainly surprised when the Thunderbolt started to laugh, softly at first, but soon Reynold was bent over double with tears of mirth running down his face.

John was starting to fear Reynold's mind had become unhinged.

However, he stood his ground as Reynold began to advance on him, striding with a determined purpose. He was a meter away when John closed his eyes, sure that he was about to be punched. But no pain came.

"What are you doing here _Watson."_ Reynold spat, close to his ear.

John opened his eyes to meet Reynold's stormy grey ones, reminding him immediately of Sherlock. John looked to the ground and straightened under his intense gaze.

"I'm here... to fight you." He muttered.

The noise of their audience grew to earsplitting levels as they screamed for the fight to begin.

Reynold chuckled darkly at John's words. John was surprised when he thumped him on the arm like they were old friends parting after a nice chat.

"Finally come to terms with it have you?" He laughed.

John raised an eyebrow, not understanding what Reynold meant.

"I'm sorry?"

Reynold's face fell once more, and his smile now seemed to hold a malicious threat. He stepped closer.

"What I did for you that day," Reynold said, throwing the words like daggers.

John's heartbeat picked up like a war call. He was still utterly bewildered, what did Reynold mean? What day?

Reynold read his emotions from his face like a book. He shook his head and walked away from John.

John desperately didn't want to follow but he knew what Sherlock would say if he backed out now. He didn't want to fail, but he didn't want to fight either.

John could remember laughing by the fire with this man, roasting boar and telling rumors about the petty officers who never liked to get their hands dirty. Reynold had been a good, reliable friend when he needed him. Then John had turned his back on him when Reynold needed him most.

No one ever found out what happened to Reynold's regiment that day. And Reynold only admitted in tears to leaving his friends dying on that field.

John had wondered after that day if he would have done the same, ran away from the fight when it was obviously lost. He told himself firmly that he wouldn't, and left Reynold to the dogs.

He had even caught word of Reynold's court marshal, but when asked to testify for him, he declined. He had never thought twice about it.

God he was a fool.

But still, what was Reynold talking about, what had he done for John that he expected him to know of?

He followed Reynold into the center of the ring like a scolded puppy. The crowd cheered, momentarily appeased.

Reynold raised his fists, and John noticed that the knuckles were scuffed and bloody from his night of fighting. That must be hurting him, John thought.

John stood awkwardly with his arms resting at his sides. Maybe if he just talked to him-

"Come on!" Reynold yelled.

Apparently their moment of peace was over.

John raised his fists, feeling as uncomfortable as an elephant in a living room.

Reynold hopped on his feet, bouncing back and forth like he was walking on air. Wth a slight pivot he made a grab for John's wrist, but he snatched it away in time.

 _Get me out of here Sherlock!_

After dodging a few jabs to the chest, John grew tired of staying on the defensive. He honestly didn't want to fight Reynold, but clearly the man really wanted to put his head on a jewel encrusted platter, so there was really no choice

He threw a punch at Reynold's jaw.

 **I lied! I ran out of time today, I'll try to start writing sooner tomorrow. I wonder how John's gonna get out of this mess ;) Review, let me know what you think, and btw I do take requests for any series of words or just one that you would like me to do.**


	75. Apology (part 4)

**Apology**

 _noun-_

 _a regretful acknowledgment of an offense or failure._

* * *

John was surprised when his fist connected with flesh, and from the look on Reynold's face, he was surprised John had lashed out.

He looked almost offended as he stumbled from the force of the blow, but a sick smile replaced the expression.

" _OOOH and the innocent looking stranger gets in the first hit!"_ Samuelson screamed.

"The cat's got claws." Reynold hissed.

John grunted as he backed up into the wall. Numberless hands reached out and pushed him back, almost running into Reynold. But John skirted around him, and went in to knock his legs out from under him but Reynolds saw it coming and hopped out of the way.

A hush had fallen over the crowd as they watched the fight intently. Most had to be wondering why the thunderbolt hadn't swept this pipsqueak under the rug yet.

But what the masses had yet to perceive was that their champion was evenly matched by the inconsequential looking stranger with the sandy hair.

"Come on kitty, show us your ferocious side." Reynold taunted as he skirted around John in a circle. "You sure are ruthless, I found that out when you left me to face the court alone."

John winced under the weight of his words, and Reynold snuck in a punch to his stomach winding him.

"Did you even try to find out what had happened to me?" Reynold whispered with venom.

John didn't answer, and he coughed as he tried to drag air back into his lungs and lunged at Reynold when he noticed his stance was crooked. The arena gasped collectively as Reynold toppled sideways. He bounced once on the dusty ground, causing a cloud to rise around John's ankles. He glared up at John, but he thought that maybe it was with less hate than before.

"I was sure you would come," Reynold said, seeming sad for a small moment. "I told them, ask John Watson to testify for me, he'll tell you that I wouldn't just run away. Then you _turned it down."_

Reynold swung his legs quickly around knocking John's feet out from under him. One section no later John was in the same position Reynold had been in and was groaning in pain. He was getting too old for this.

"Look, I just couldn't believe what you did, I thought I didn't know you anymore," John admitted in shame.

John paused when he realized he had said the wrong thing as Reynold's face contorted in rage.

Reynold picked John up by the shoulders in one fowl swoop and rammed him up against the wall. A bolt of sharp pain raced through John's spine.

"They sentenced me to a year of military prison and stripped me of my rank because I pleaded guilty, my lawyer told them my retreat had been necessary. But my life was ruined, all I had ever dreamed for was gone, all because of you!"

John pushed him roughly away from him, his hands coming away sticky with sweat from Reynold's dripping chest.

"What do you mean!" John bellowed finally reaching the end of his rope.

Reynold shook his head, shaking red locks out of his eyes.

"I can't believe you, Watson." He said with a surprising amount of remorse. "I used to idolize you, fawn over your every word. Look how far you have fallen."

John knew that he was just trying to antagonize him, but it still hit home. He was barely anything now, didn't mean much to anyone.

" _What do you mean,_ " John said again, finally succeeding in pinning the light-footed man against a barrier.

"Everything that happened to me was because of _you_." He said with an insane smile, the smile of a man who had lost it all on a gamble at life.

John let him go. He didn't care about the fight anymore, he didn't care about finding bloody Samuelson.

He was done.

John started to walk away when Reynold tackled him with words.

"I volunteered to take your place!" He yelled in a high sing-song voice.

John froze.

"They were going to send you that day, _Watson could use more field missions_ they said. But I remembered _I remembered what you said!_ You told me that you weren't comfortable with having those men's lives in your hands when they were still uninjured, and I did the stupidest thing I had ever done in my life! I volunteered to take _your_ place! YOU. WOULD. HAVE. DIED!"

Reynold's voice broke as he choked on a sob, and all John wanted to do was turn around and comfort him like friends should.

He had messed up so bad.

He was about to turn on his heel and beg to be forgiven when he was barreled into from behind.

The force sent him flying a meter or two, and his face skidded into the bloody dirt layering the ground. Reynold was on top of him still, and he began attacking him with his fists, tears still streaming down his face.

Gracious Reynold was strong.

After a punch to the mouth that rattled his teeth like dominos, John tried to throw him off but he clung on tight.

"Don't be an idiot John! Go for his torso!" Sherlock yelled out of nowhere, voice perfectly clear in the still room.

 _Late as always Sherlock._

Of course, Reynold immediately guarded his middle, which opened up his sides for John to flip over on his belly. He screamed in frustration and grabbed at John but he slipped away and jogged to the opposite side of the ring.

John frantically scanned the crowd and found the Detective leaning over the railing nearer to Reynold's half. He was beckoning at the double doors that they had come in. What? Did he want him to just walk out of the ring and leave?

Reynold followed his line of sight and smiled sickly at Sherlock who ceased miming and stared coldly back.

"So you have a new friend now? That's good. But hey," he leaned in closer to Sherlock and held his hand up to his mouth like he was telling a secret. "He will betray you in a heartbeat. That's what he does. Because he is afraid of being left behind because that's all what anyone ever did to him. His mother, his sister, his first love. See, I know you Johnny, that's what good friends are supposed to do."

John wanted to hit him for mentioning his mum, he hadn't told anyone about her since Mary, oh God he didn't want to think about it now.

Sherlock glared cold fire. "And what do you do? Unemployed for seven, eightish months, sleeping on a different girl's lie low every night. Seems John has you beat on this one." He replied snarkily.

It was per the usual insulting of strangers, but John appreciated the standing up to the frighteningly ripped ex-military man who looked like he wanted to throttle you bit.

"Reynold," John said, drawing his attention away from Sherlock who was stubbornly standing his ground.

Reynold faked a look of surprise. "Wonderful job! I applaud you on remembering my name."

Sherlock started motioning towards the door again as soon as he turned his back, he even pulled out a square object from his pocket- Oh. It was Greg's badge.

John walked towards Reynold with his palms open, and only got close enough to him to show he wanted to say something only for him to hear.

Reynold couldn't look any more murderous.

John bent in close, "Run." he whispered.

Reynold's face drew a blank.

"What?"

"I said, _run._ The police are on their way, you need to get out of here. We came here for Samuelson." John repeated.

He wasn't at all concerned about Reynold warning Samuelson, he was loyal until the bitter end. Even if he didn't know it.

"Listen, I can't put my gratitude into words for what you did for me, and I am so ashamed of what I did. I can help you get back on your feet, I promise I won't leave this time."

Reynold was utterly stunned. John could tell he was speechless at the sudden change.

"Uhm, this Sunday, coffee, the London eye?"

Reynold stuttered out an intelligible reply but John took that at the yes, and began ushering him to the door in the ring.

"Right, see you then, and the address is two two one B baker street."

Reynold took a short moment to clasp his shoulder before running out of the gate, which left the crowd erupting in boos.

Two more fighters entered as soon as John stepped out. He felt light sort of, definitely happy. That could have ended in so many ways, and it ended in a hopeful one.

Sherlock materialized a moment later. For some reason he seemed uncomfortable.

He handed John his jumper. "You fight well." he said shortly.

"Oh, uh thanks. It's been a while since combat training but yeah."

"Are you going to tell me who he was?" Sherlock asked.

"Hmm, maybe someday."

Sherlock groaned just as the doors at the top of the stairs burst open, and a wave of black and white clad officers spilled in.

To put it shortly the pit transformed into hell for a few short minutes, ending with Samuelson in cuffs after Sherlock dragging him out of a hidden sound booth in the wall, and all the fighters taken in for questioning.

John was relieved when he didn't spot Reynold's red head among the rowdy arrestees.

Lestrade sauntered up to them a moment later.

"Nice job lads." He said, thumping sherlock on the back.

"No," he said surprising them all. "John deserves all the credit."

 **Woo WoO it's done yay. Look out for another chap again Monday!**


	76. Violin

**Violin**

 _Noun-_

 _An instrument_

* * *

"NO!"

John awoke with a start from a heavenly dream as his flatmate howled from the floor below.

With a gasp, John rolled out of bed and grabbed the browning from its place atop his dresser. His reflexes were so finely tuned after eight years as Sherlock's flatmate, he could spring from a bed in a dead sleep to tackle an invade in less than a minute.

Admittedly half asleep, John shot out of the door took the steps two at a time, and flew into the living room with the barrel of his gun seeking out any criminals.

Morning's face was just beginning to peek through the curtains of 221B, but all seemed right and in its place.

He stalked around the perimeter of the room. "Sherlock?" John whispered.

A groan of wretched pain echoed out of Sherlock's open door.

John peeked around the corner, and tiptoed past the kitchen table full of test tubes and graduated cylinders, past the bathroom which had a strange pink mist hovering above John's sink, and stopped before Sherlock's door.

Slowly, John reached out with careful fingers and tapped the door lightly to open it. It swung open without a sound and John barrelled into the room, eyes searching for torturers or potential murderers.

He briefly considered the tall man hunched over Sherlock's desk a target, but he recognized him a second later.

Sherlock's caramel bathrobe was fluttering around his ankles as he cradled something unseen in his arms with his back to John. He hadn't even started at John's war cry.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John yawned, and walked towards the detective.

As he drew closer John noticed with his carefully trained eyes that Sherlock's shoulders had a slight tremor to them, either from sadness or frustration, either couldn't be good.

Sherlock still didn't respond, and John was just about to admonish him when he assumed he had hurt himself again when he spotted what was cradled in his arms. His 19th century (John had remembered him bragging about it) Stradivarius violin was laying broken in his arms like a deformed baby, it's neck snapped above the base and the strings cut above the fingerboard.

"Bloody hell..." John touched the soft maple wood with a tentative finger. "What happened?"

John didn't get a chance to look at his friend's face as he turned away towards the window holding his fragmented child like a mother would an infant.

"The run-in with Jones."

 _Ah yes._

Jones Truman had broken into 221B a week ago to exact revenge upon Sherlock for providing evidence against his brother, and they both ended up in jail together within a day.

"I thought he didn't have enough time to steal anything?" John reiterated.

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath. He spun on his heel and began to pace back and forth with a ferocious snarl on his face.

"Obviously, he had time enough to destroy a priceless musical instrument." he snapped as he passed by.

John actually felt quite sad for his flatmate. He knew how much he treasured the violin, it was one of the most important things he kept with him. He had never heard the story behind it however. John decided that now might not be the best time to ask.

He stopped himself asking if it could be fixed; not wanting to be chided by insults of low IQ.

"Why are you frustrated?" He asked instead.

Sherlock twisted violently in his path and sat on the bed causing the lilac duvet to crinkle beneath him.

He opened his mouth to speak, then his face softened and he closed it again. He seemed younger as he realized his anger and confronted his emotions.

"No Luthier in England or beyond could repair this exactly. It would never be the same, it wouldn't be _my_ violin." He admitted.

John sat in Sherlock's desk chair. "How long have you had it?" he asked softly.

Sherlock answered immediately, "Since I was three years old. It was passed down in my family to me."

John smiled as he imagined toddler Sherlock trying to play the violin twice the size of his arm.

He was surprised when Sherlock kept talking. "It was something that I always excelled at. Mycroft couldn't play an instrument if he had all the talent in the world and so that made it unique to me. His fat fingers and uncontrolled temper prevented him from learning the simplest of melodies. And so I finally had something that Mycroft didn't."

John nodded, he had grown up as the little brother, shunned, sheltered from the important things, never really seeing the entire picture. He hadn't understood the concept of love between husband and wife until he watched couples at the park, they had never screamed and hit each other.

He watched as Sherlock laid the violin down on his bed like a delicate glass flower.

"I would like to be alone please." Sherlock muttered.

John stood and patted him reassuringly on the shoulder as he left. He went straight to the living room, and plucked his laptop up from under a mountain of case files and odd pictures.

 _New Blog Post_

 _Dear Readers,_

 _I have a mission for you. In 221B we suddenly found ourselves violinless._

 _If any of you know of a 35 cm, maple wood,_ _Stradivarius violin, 17th or 18th century, please email me at this link,_

 _If not, I'm sure a certain detective can make do with a store bought one._

 _Thank you,_

 _John Watson_

A few minutes later John's email dinged.

 _1 new message from,_

 _._

 **:) Poor Sherlock. I wish I knew how to play violin, it is such a beautiful instrument. All emails are fake by the way. I wonder if The Queen has an email address though, that would be interesting. Review!**


	77. Pool (part 1)

**Pool**

 _noun-_

 _a pool suitable for swimming;_ _especially : a tank (as of concrete or plastic) made for swimming._

* * *

John always knew that pools weren't his thing. Especially public pools.

The screaming children, the frothing mass of water, the helplessness of a hundred humans trying to assert their will upon each other.

But right now he would trade a stressful day at the pool with his friends for the stillness of the empty swimming center. The stage of Carl Powers' death had now reached the curtain call, and John was in the spotlight.

He took a silent gasping breath as he heard the door at the end of the row open and close. _He must be back, oh God._

But it was not his strangely familiar kidnapper that spoke loudly to the empty room.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from _this."_

 _The twat lied about giving the stick back to Mycroft._

Sherlock's bass tones echoed like a war cry over the mockingly still water.

 _Run, run, please just run. it's a trap for God's sake._

John hugged the vest of semtacs tighter as if it could shield his friend from his fate. _Their_ fate.

" _Now it's your time to shine Doctor Watson."_ A reptilian voice hissed in his ear.

Like the devil to eve. Not that he was a woman, _focus you need to figure out a way out of this!_

" _Step out and repeat after me..."_

* * *

 _"_ Quite a turn up isn't it Sherlock?"

Sherlock stopped thinking for a moment as his flatmate stared at him with a blank face.

 _John, John? Moriarty is John?_

He was wearing a coat that didn't belong to him and bulged unseemly like a spare tire around his waist.

 _What the in the Queen's name-_

His arm holding the flashdrive lowered. "John. What the hell?" He stuttered.

He looked uncomfortable, scared even. Something was not right...

"Bet you never saw _this_ coming." John said in a monotone drone.

Suddenly Sherlock managed to move, and started to stalk slowly toward the man he had believed to be his friend. The shock and bewilderment on his face make him look about twelve years old, even though he would never admit his feeling of betrayal.

Then, with a look of despair which matches Sherlock's, John took his hands from his pockets and pulled open his jacket to reveal the bomb strapped to his chest. From somewhere in the upper gallery, a sniper's laser spotlighted John's spangled chest.

"What ... would you like me ... to make him say ... next?" John spat out the words like poisonous berries.

Sherlock growled deep in his chest like a feral animal. "Stop it."

"Why should I?" An Irish lilt taunts from the other end of the pool.

Sherlock twists around to see an impeccably dressed man, slicked back hair, tie, dressed as if he were going to a fancy gala.

John breaths heavily as his voice is his own again.

Sherlock's hand drifted towards his trouser pocket where his gun sat heavily against his side.

"Oh Sherl, I thought you would be excited to see me!" Moriarty chattered and instantly another dozen laser spotlights have illuminated both of their bodies.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances, John's panicked and Sherlock's calmly agitated.

"Jim Moriarty, _hi..."_ He drawled as he skipped past the deep end, barely a meter away from them.

John looked surprised and Jim noticed.

"Yeah, thought I'd come and visit your little clubhouse and see where all the big boys play." Jim said petting John's fringe. "Jim, Jim from IT?"

Sherlock took a step forward but Moriarty held up a hand in warning.

"Ah ah ah, you see Sherlie, it isn't time for that just yet. Although I am so very excited to watch your execution, we have a deal to make." He tittered.

John shied back from Moriarty's hand and leaned against one of the blue changing cubicles for support.

"What do you want? _This?"_ Sherlock asked, holding up the memory stick.

Jim plucked it out of his hand. "Ooooh the missile plans..." he cooed.

Sherlock cringed slightly as Moriarty's pink tongue ran along the metal curve of the flash drive.

" _Boring!_ " He sang and tossed the plans into the pool, causing a _Plink!_ sound.

"I want your heart!" Jim smiled and stood on his toes to match Sherlock's height.

This man was deranged and a genius. He stepped back and Sherlock breathed softly in relief.

"Now the deal." he said, and grinned with a insane fervor. "Your life, for _John Watson's._ Or his life for yours. You have sixty seconds to decide."

 **Part 2 coming tomorrow! As you probably figured out this is a alternate ending to The Great Game. Review what you think Sherlock will do :)**


	78. Decision (part 2)

**Decision**

 _noun-_

 _a conclusion or resolution reached after consideration._

* * *

John looked at him, an incomprehensible horror dawning on his face. Sherlock's heart stopped as he realized there was no way out.

He giggled. "I'll spare one life but you both have to agree, and your sixty seconds start now." Moriarty said stepping back.

 **60**

"Sherlock it needs to be you." John said grasping his wrist between his shaking hands.

"J-John I..." His heart beat in a timbre of fear.

Sherlock looked away from John's wide eyes and glared at the rippling water as if it were responsible."Please! You are valuable to the world, you do things that make a difference, I am nothing. You have to let me go." John said.

"John don't be an idiot!" He snapped. "You make the world a better place just by living. The world needs more John Watsons in it, it would be better off without a Sherlock Holmes."

 **40**

"Shut up." John growled with intense feeling. "You. Save. Lives."

Sherlock hissed in antagonization, his fists balling in supressed rage. As he looked into John's eyes he could see his life. He could be happy, he could get married and have a little one, he could survive. But Sherlock couldn't. His life ha been dark without John's light, and he would not allow it to be snuffed out.

"You saved mine." He replied softly, finally realizing the inevitable conclusion.

He would not fear death.

 **20**

"Aww this is so cute." Moriarty simpered as he watched them like they were an interesting telly program.

John shook his head an little emotion slipped through his mask and he scrubbed his treacherous tears from his face.

"I'm sorry John." Sherlock whispered and grabbed his hand.

He relished the last physical touch he would have in this world

 **10**

John's face was in the process of shifting into a confused glare when Sherlock pulled roughly on his arm. John yelped as Sherlock pushed him into the pool, sending him down into it's watery depths.

Sherlock gulped in precious oxygen and faced Moriarty who was laughing in glee.

"Kill me." He said.

Sherlock felt a slight tickle in his forehead as a bullet pierced through his forehead between the eyes.

But then he was already gone.

.

 **Like I said before, this is just an alternate ending. And it doesn't play into the Daily Occurrences universe at all. But wow I'm sad now. I'm sorry I didn't expand on this very much, I would have liked to, but I'm a little tuckered out. By the way, John does survive. Review please :) Any word requests would be welcomed.**


	79. Father

**Father**

 _noun-_

 _a man in relation to his natural child or children._

* * *

My Dear Sweet Child.

I know you're near

I can smell your fear.

You smell of disregard

and confusion.

What is this feeling? You ask yourself.

You cannot fathom this emotion,

My brain hath betrayed thyself, you exclaim.

Your fingers tingle, your spine creaks.

What hath you become my old friend?

What did you grow up to be?

You were such a beautiful child,

now look at the decrepit waste land you have become.

What tainted your holy brain?

What disease contaminated your bill of health?

You walk in bold as the day I met you.

Wait.

Who is that man behind you?

Why do you seem to trust this, this tramp off the street?

John you call him.

 _John._

I've heard about him before I remember now.

The bachelor side kick to the unholy angel of London.

I watch as you wait for him to follow and smile at him as he tells a joke.

You shouldn't be smiling Sherlock!

He is a weakness, don't you remember, we all know what happens when you get attached!

He is the cause I realize.

He is why the great mastermind Sherlock Holmes has began to thaw his frozen heart.

The grit in the cogs of your mind Sherlock.

Do not smile! You do not understand, it is his fault that you are broken, he has deceived you!

But you cannot see it.

You never will.

He does not deserve, nothing he has done could warrant, you should be smiling at me!

Not him!

Me!

Do not worry Sherlock.

I will fix it for you.

Just like I fixed you of those pesky emotions so long ago.

Don't worry.

Your real daddy is here.

.

 **Hehehe you'll have to wait and see what comes next. By the way, thank you so much for the reviews (Lisa smithers and carbonone and guest) and for the word 'suggestions'! I will defintely be using them :-)**


	80. Disappear (part 1)

**Disappear**

 _verb-_

 _cease to be visible._

* * *

John screamed in pain as Sherlock hit his bullet wound with all the strength he had left. John finally let go of his best friend's throat; dropping Sherlock to the ground. John stumbled away, clutching his shoulder in pain.

 _"No, no, no. That won't do at all. You have to finish the job Watson."_

* * *

 _Three Days Ago._

John pinched the bridge of his nose, uh oh there's that look. His nails are going to leave a staple mark Sherlock thought with a giggle.

"What the _hell_ do you mean Mycroft is missing? He is practically the bloody King of England!"

Sherlock shrugged and plucked a lemon drop from a dish on the mahogany table and popped it in his mouth.

"Well he just disappeared. Unless erm... Anthea is sworn to secrecy than yes, my brother has vanished off of the face of the Earth."

John sighed, a completely saturated sound filled with the never ending hassles the Holmes' brothers cause.

Sherlock noticed John gets very gesturative when he's annoyed.

He could barely hold back a chuckle when John flapped his hands in antagonization. "Tell me why this is our problem again? What if he just took a nice holiday to the Irish islands where there is no reception till the bed and breakfast? I mean- how long has he been gone for?" John asked interrupting himself.

Sherlock laughed then, couldn't hold it back any longer.

"F-four hours!" He chuckled.

John couldn't help allowing himself a tiny smile.

"Then why Sherlock are we here at four in the morning?"

"When you have a-" Air quotes. " _Minor position in the British government,_ people tend to get frisky when you don't show up for work in the morning."

John laughed in shock; the kind that twists your smile and raises your eyebrows in denial. "First off, _why does he go to work at four in the morning,_ and secondly what if he's just taking a kip after a long night? I certainly would."

"Mycroft is a work addict, he is in a bad way when he doesn't work," Sherlock nodded at John's sceptical glare. "Trust me I've seen it myself. He doesn't _sleep in_ never in his life."

 **.**

 **A/N Right sorry guys, got a bit late to continue this one so I'll pick up tomorrow. And Sherlock's father from yesterday's one, he is going to show up soon. Let's just say he is my special villan and I am saving him for the right time :) Thanks for the reviews! They made me really happy.**


	81. MIA (part 2)

**MIA**

 _acronym-_

 _'Missing in action'_

* * *

"His phone records, IP address, even the built in tracking device on his phone have all been scrambled and destroyed it has been _two days_. Sherlock, you need to start taking this seriously."

Sherlock jumped as John's voice invaded his carefully constructed edifice of information. John stood boldly in the doorway with his arms crossed raising 'the' eyebrow. The, _a bit not good Sherlock_ , eyebrow.

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air as his thoughts fluttered away. "John!" He barked.

In a swooping motion akin to that of a bat taking flight, Sherlock was off his bed and diving into his closet. John watched with an amused scowl, _still_ trying to remain upset and finding it increasingly hard to.

A yellow windbreaker fled the closet first, followed closely by a renaissance style tunic ( _what would he need that for?)_ , a neon vest, a top hat, a red striped A-line dress ( _what the bloody hell? I don't even want to know...)_ , and a shaggy wool sweater.

John laughed, he couldn't help himself.

"Do you have a separate closet where you keep your actual clothes?" John asked as a peculiar leather shirt flapped out of the open door.

Sherlock didn't dignify the question with an answer.

"Sherlock come on," he said as he stepped into the room. "You're making a mess-"

"Ah ha!"

The flow of disregarded clothing stopped and Sherlock reemerged holding a small envelope in his hands. It was yellowed with age, and John immediately noticed there were no address spelled out on the front.

"What have you found?" John asked, but was ignored.

Sherlock swept by him and practically skipped to his desk were he pried a dagger from the overly stuffed drawer. _Ha, I recognize that dagger,_ John thought as he remembered it's owner who had slit Sherlock's innards open with it. Thankfully the dagger didn't slice open flesh but the seal flap of the envelope.

"I assure you John," Sherlock said slowly as he withdrew the contents out. "I am taking this quite seriously."

He held a flashdrive into a beam light from the window like a dramatic showgirl.

Sherlock pulled out his most infuriating _I know stuff you don't_ smirk. "This is going to find my dear brother in a matter of seconds." He declared.

"Huh. And how can that find him when the government can't?" John didn't try to hide his skepticism, he enjoyed egging on the Detective sometimes, God knows he deserves a little fun.

Without warning but a twinkle in Sherlock's eye he tossed the drive across his bed to John, who caught it without batting an eyelid.

The silver rectangle sat surprisingly heavy in his hand.

"The government isn't brothers with Mycroft Holmes." Sherlock huffed with a smile.

He hopped onto his bed and off again as he pulled John out of the bedroom door.

"Now what did I do with your computer?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

John groaned as he stumbled along behind him.


	82. Crazy (part 3)

**Crazy**

 _adjective-_

 _mentally deranged, especially as manifested in a wild or aggressive way._

* * *

Sherlock plugged in the black flashdrive with gusto, still laughing heartily at the expression on John's face.

They had finally located John's laptop which had gone missing a week ago. After an hour of searching (on John's part), Sherlock had finally managed to recall his deleted memory of it's whereabouts.

He had then extracted it from under the crooked bookshelf, trying to explain to John that it had been very nessecary to prop up the short side with his Macbook, it had been throwing off the balance of the room.

"I hope the _balance_ is willing to repair the dent in my computer." John had growled.

A strange unlabled program began to run on the computer, a radar with a map of London appearing in the blank tab.

"What the hell?" John asked, bending the screen closer to his face.

Sherlock grabbed the computer from his hands and laid it on the coffee table in front of them.

"This is the answer to our problem John." He said pointing at a green dot on the screen right next to Liverpool.

John's eyes followed Sherlock's finger as he then pointed to a red dot over Baker street.

"How do you have this?" John asked in amazement.

Sherlock spasmed his shoulder in a half shrug biting his lip in hesitation.

"Oh I get it, can't tell me?"

"No, no. Uhm, we both agreed long ago to be tagged per say, a way to always know where the other is. Well, he insisted I have it done and I wouldn't unless he did the same so... guess I got lucky. Never had to use it before."

John's face folded as he realized what a ' _long time ago'_ really meant. Back when the drugs were the ones holding _Sherlock_ captive. The bond between the brothers, however stressed and misused was there and ever present. They both cared, but they both had rejected their love. But from what John had witnessed, Mycroft was starting to thaw in his old age.

He patted Sherlock on the shoulder trying inaudibly to express that he understood. John stood from the couch with a grim resolve.

"Let's go get your brother." He declared.

.

 **A/N ah short fic today, very busy with preparing for the launch of my public writing club. Wish me luck!**


	83. Minion

**Important! Fellow fanfic writer XxPrincessItalyxX is joining our Daily Occurrences fam today as co author of this beautiful crack fic, and we will be taking a quick break from our Missing Mycroft series to see what happens when Sherlock watches the Minions movie!**

* * *

 **Minions**

 _noun-_

 _a follower or underling of a powerful person, especially a servile or unimportant one._

* * *

When John had given him the DVD case, Sherlock didn't expect to be watching nothing but an hour and thirty one minutes worth of yellow mounds of unintelligent flesh go on such an unrealistic journey. It was clever revenge on John's part, as he knew full well the effect the torturous movie would have on Sherlock. In varying degrees of stockholm syndrome, Sherlock watched; unable to tear his eyes away.

His first thought: _What the bloody hell. How in the Queens name did this become a movie._

Eyes still glued to the screen, Sherlock continued to suck in every second of footage that the film provided. Not only was the language highly undecipherable, but the entire plot line did nothing but add onto the ridiculous nature of childishness that was displayed on the telly.

This, _this was entertainment._

He started to grasp what the storyline was trying to convey with nonsensical yellow glowsticks.

So, they were trying to find a master? Ha I think Moriarty would suit them, he thought, I would enjoy watching him blow them up one by one.

He began to understand the phrase, _television is_ _mind-numbing,_ as he watched 5 more grueling minutes, mouth hanging open. Not only were the dull-minded peanuts almost ran over by a oncoming car, but they were also completely oblivious to the obvious fact of the families villainous nature.

"Not only is the mother wielding a knife, but they all are wearing gloves! Not to mention the ski masks in the glove compartment! How could those stupid creatures not realize that the family was villains! Its obvious!" Sherlock continued to shout obscenities at the screen as the film kept rolling, pointing out every fact easily and deducing every flaw in the main antagonist.

 _Villiancon, what an interesting idea._

He felt like vomiting in undiluted disgust as _Scarlet Overkill_ took the stage.

"Are. You. Kidding. Me." Sherlock face palmed his forehead as his hope that humanity would exist for more than a hundred more years disappeared.

When Bob got the ruby, Sherlock cursed fiction. Not only was that highly predictable, but now he knew that the babyish movie would drone on and on with more palpable events that could be seen from a mile away. Sherlock cursed John for not only giving him the DVD, but also for somehow immersing him into this tortuous nightmare.

She was taking them home? What the- Oh wait a minute, this seemed like it was about to get interesting.

She lives in London? Which part does she- _SHE LIVES IN A BLOODY PINK CASTLE ARE YOU KIDDING ME._

Stealing Queen Elizabeth's crown, oh my word. That seems all to familiar.

Please get arrested, please get arrested.

THEY STOLE THE CROWN FROM THE _QUEEN_ AND MANAGED TO NOT GET CAUGHT, EVEN MORIARTY-

* * *

As John continued his way back to 221B Baker Street, his thoughts swirled around his head, wondering how Sherlock was doing. I mean, he had given the consulting detective a children's movie to watch while he was out, and could only imagine the hilarious outcome of his friend after him seeing it the whole way through.

He walked up the stairs to pause at the landing. Was that... a minion speaking?

He had seen the movie once, in the theater with a couple of mates (he might have been slightly intoxicated when he choose the movie to watch), so he remembered the sound of their chattering quite well.

But... He had left for work 9 hours ago. Sherlock had just started watching the movie when he left, why was he still watching it?

Finally he opened the door, curiosity winning out. He stepped into the door, immediately recognizing Minions playing on the box TV, but Sherlock was not sitting in his armchair, bored like he left him.

"Sherl-" John began to call out, but stopped as a hand reached out and grabbed him from the couch.

John turned, a yelp of fright rising to his lips as he was met with a yellow skinned, overall wearing, canary yellow, well; GIANT minion.

He pulled his arm back from the black gloved hand in shock, and was about to run to get Mrs. Hudson when the Minion spoke.

"Relax John it's just me."

John's chin dropped to his chest as the minion with Sherlock's voice reached up and unscrewed it's head, revealing the baby-sized (compared to the body) head of Sherlock Holmes.

And he was grinning.

"I might have used your laptop to order a few things on amazon... yes, be a dear won't you and tell Mrs. Hudson if a couple dozen packages start arriving with your name on them they are for me."

John gazed at the playing TV in horror, what had he begun?

"What did you buy?" He stuttered.

"Uh well, I bought a plush, a sheet, a duvet, a wardrobe, pajamas, a cut out, a man who claimed to be a minion, a cultrey set, a giant plush, a-"

"Oh my God."


	84. Surprise (part 4)

**Surprise**

 _noun-_

 _an unexpected or astonishing event, fact, or thing._

* * *

"Tell me again why we haven't told anyone that we found Mycroft?" John asked.

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the frosty cab window. "John we are just going to go in there, get him, and bring him back. No questions asked."

John watched his companion's face carefully. "You don't want to tell anyone about the tag do you."

Sherlock frowned at John, as though he should be ashamed pointing out something so obvious. "The more people who know about it, the more dangerous it becomes."

An enemy could find out, and hack into the chip. Or worse.

"Righ' yeah I understand."

John began to fidget in his seat as the anticipation built. They were so close to the address and the green dot hadn't moved a centimeter since they started the program.

"How far now?" John asked after another quite minute.

 _You will arrive at your destination after your next left turn,_ Siri answered for him.

He could see the building. How strange, it appeared to be a school.

Slightly dilapidated and run down but a school never-the-less.

John paid the cabbie to wait and quickly hopped out of the car, very eager to find Mycroft and get all this over with. Sherlock took the lead and charged onto the brick lined pavement which lead to the front door of the school.

 _The red brick road, hopefully not red with Mycroft's blood,_ John thought quite morbidly.

Under the shade of the balcony above, John caught up to Sherlock who was standing at the door, tugging on the pull bar.

It was a glass door, and from the looks of it, behind it lay a normal looking staircase.

"It's locked tight." John said, pulling the Detective away from the door before he shattered it. "We can find another way in."

John had just turned away when he was hit in the back.

"What the-" He turned around and there was the door sitting wide open.

The sunshine winked innocently in the glass.

"Yep. Definitely a trap." John declared.

Sherlock was inspecting the opening system already. "Remotely operated." he concluded.

Sherlock shrugged at him as he led the way inside, John pausing for a moment to pull out his gun.


	85. Plot-twist (part 5)

**Plot-twist**

 _noun-_

 _an unexpected development._

* * *

It was dark. The shadows sliced walls in half and crept across the floor leaving John with an uneasy feeling.

"Mycroft?" He called out softly as he peered into the 50th empty classroom.

This one was just like the others, tables and chairs stacked in the back of the room, gathering dust.

They had split up around twenty minutes ago seeing that the school was just to large to search productively together. But since then a feeling had been growing in John's gut, more of a hunch really.

He felt like someone was toying with them.

John spun around as footsteps echoed behind him.

Sherlock had taken the gun (John practically forced it on him), so he was weaponless.

A long shadow of a man rose from around the corner.

"Sher- argh!"

The world went black as John's head connected with a baseball bat.

"Johnny boy Johnny boy, don't look now! You have to join the game, because we need four players." A voice giggled.

* * *

Where would I keep Mycroft if I had kidnapped him? I would put him in the walk in refrigerator and handcuff him to the shelf. But I already checked there!

Cafeteria, kitchen, offices, Headmaster's office, oh. There is only one place left.

The gymnasium.

Sherlock thought about texting John but when he thought about it... He would much rather get Mycroft himself and have John meet them at the car.

Wouldn't want John witnessing any potencially embarrassing moments.

He located the nearest map nailed to the wall by the fire exit. The gymnasium was in the back of the building, in the Half John was going to clear.

Maybe texting John wasn't such a bad idea.

 _Did you find anything? -SH_

 _John? -SH_

 _Why aren't you answering your phone? -SH_

Sherlock set off for the gymnasium at once. Obviously something had happened to John, either he broke his phone or is indisposed; incapable of answering his phone.

He looked down as his phone vibrated in his hand.

 _He is waiting for you to come and play the game Sherly. -MH_

 **.**

 **A/N last part monday :) Daily Occurrences is one year old today! Wooo! *blows out candles on Sherlock cake***


	86. Control (part 6)

**Control**

 _noun-_

 _the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events._

* * *

" _John wake up._ "

A insistent, familiar sounding voice berated John Watson, tethering him from the depths with their urgency.

"John, _John!_ "

And he was back in his own body again, ears ringing from Sherlock's agitated yelling.

He was tied to a section of bleachers? What?

John looked around and realized they were in a gymnasium, it brought back memories of sweat stains and floppy muscle. Except this gym wasn't full of agonized children, but converted into a sort of home. John's personal bleacher was placed in the middle of the court looking out on a bed and assortment of technology set up on tables. How was all of this here?

"John are you alright? What happened?"

John remembered Sherlock and found him tied to an identical bleacher piece about two meters away; strangely looking at him with control.

"I have no bloody clue, someone attacked me and brought me here. How are you here?" John retorted.

Sherlock grimaced with snow white incisors.

"I got a text from Mycroft that about playing a game or something, but it was on _your_ phone. So I came to rescue you and then my memory stops." Sherlock shrugged, seeming at a loss for once. "He wouldn't respond back. John I'm starting to think something is very wrong."

"That's where you would be right brother mine!"

John and Sherlock both jumped in surprise as Mycroft appeared from behind a locker room door.

He looked awful, suit ruined and torn, discoloration of the skin, a rash running up the side of his neck, and not to mention the extreme exhaustion plastered on his face like super glue.

He glared at them with two black eyes, daring each to speak up.

Unfortunately Sherlock had gone into shock mode. Where he can't move, talk, or rationalize with something until he finds out what he missed, where his mind did him wrong. Sherlock stared; openmouthed at his brother his horror putweighing his anger for once.

Mycroft opened his mouth again to speak, then a snap echoed through the large gymnasium and Mycroft stepped back, subdued.

"What..."

"That's enough my pet." A woman spoke from the shadows. "We must begin the game."

Mycroft's face lit up in a grotesque imitation of a child's enthusia. The forty eight year old man clapped and jumped in excitement.

"The game, the game, the game."

.

 **Almost done. This one just doesn't want to end. I want to thank Melodyofsong256 for her extremely kind reviews, and Lisa Smithers! And all the guests who reviewed, thank you. Each review I get makes me incredibly happy, because that is why I do this. I do it because it's fun and I want to shhare it to you bc I want to make people happy.**


	87. Game (part 7)

**Game**

 _noun-_

 _a form of play or sport, especially a competitive one played according to rules and decided by skill, strength, or luck._

* * *

 _"_ Sherlock..." John said with warning.

The Detective stared at his brother, back to John, then to the giggling Mycroft.

"Pull it together! What do we do?" John snapped as his friend gaped very unhelpfully.

"I am afraid there is nothing _you_ can do Doctor Watson, at least, _not yet_."

The woman who had spoken earlier stepped out of the shadows. Tall, intimidating, the very picture of unhampered grace; slick caramel hair pinned back, eyes like a hawk, slim body exhibited by a black sheath dress. Her voice was as melodic as a day at the _London Symphony._ She looked to be around forty.

 _Wait. I think I know who this is,_ John thought. _I saw her somewhere, she put on a show..._

"You're Myriam Thorn!" John exclaimed in surprise as he remembered.

She had been one of his top favorite crap telly programs to watch... _Myriam The Great Magician!_ John remembered being sad when her show got cancelled. He even moaned about it to Mrs. Hudson over croissants.

Myriam's eyes widened and her face crinkled into a strange smile. "You watched my show? How wonderful..."

"John? Who is she?" Sherlock asked, surprising him.

"She's a superb magician, I used to watch her all the time- _oh._ " John's face blanked.

"What John? What is it?"

His eyes widened in horrible clarity. "She specializes in hypnotism."

"Well that's good for us then. Hypnotism is complete rubbish, just mind tricks and the diverting of attention whilst hypnotists empty your wallet." Sherlock laughed snarkily.

Heels clicked on the wood floor. "I am right here you know."

Both John and Sherlock ignored her as they continued to bicker.

"It's not rubbish! I've seen it done, it changes people!"

"The only thing it changes is the credibility of those who fall prey to their silly 'magic' acts and believe in the falsehoods."

"I've seen a man think he was a lizard and crawl around on the floor and try to eat flys for five hours. Nobody would just pretend-"

"STOP IT." Myriam shouted like a scolding mother.

The boys glared at her but both simultaneously decided to conclude their argument later.

"What have you done to my brother?" Sherlock asked.

John was impressed by the threat laced question, even though Sherlock was in no position to do anything harmful to Myriam. Mycroft looked up as if sensing he was the topic of the conversation, but the vacant look in his eye told that Mycroft was not home right now.

Myriam smiled back, drinking in the threat like a sweet smelling flower. She sidled up to Mycroft, who was perfectly still with child-like awe, and stroked the ginger fuzz spotting his jaw.

"I merely diminished him to a less, _adulty_ state, more cute and helpful that way. Mr. Holmes... your _brother_ now has the mind of a six year old." Myriam crooned.

Sherlock spat at her feet, such a vicious rage controlling his body, the like John had never witnessed before.

"You, you, you..." Sherlock stuttered than cursed quite fluently.

Myriam theatrically gasped and fanned herself with a hand. "How _audacious_! Mycie dear, I think it is time to start our little game."

Mycroft whooped with joy and scuttled off to the changing room again. He was back a minute later, carrying jumper cables and a car battery.

"I hope you don't mind if we have a bit of fun Mr. Holmes? Before I have your brother kill you of course."


	88. Sane (part 8)

**Sane**

 _adjective-_

 _of sound mind; not mad or mentally ill._

* * *

"Mycroft, stop, I'm John Watson remember? I live with your brother and you like to threaten me in secluded places-" John said frantically, trying to dissuade the elder Holmes as he began to run wires from their individual sections of bleachers to the car battery.

Sherlock had fallen silent again, _the bloody idiot,_ and Myriam was watching Mycroft work like a proud mother reaping the benefits of her labor.

"Myriam!" John shouted as Mycroft clamped metal shackles around his ankles and attached one of the jumper cables to it.

She looked up with mild disinterest written on her face. "Yes?" She asked, voice high and nasally.

"Why the hell are you doing this, did Mycroft shut down your show or something? What could you possible have to gain from killing us? And why are we being stung up like light bulbs? Bloody hell..."

Myriam giggled and pursed her lips in a psychotic simper. "Watson dear you should ask your shattered friend over there... he knows _exactly_ why your here."

Mycroft finished on John's wiring and switched to Sherlock's. John watched his friend stare down at his brother with a bleak despondance in his eyes.

Sherlock was quiet. He was never quiet. Especially when he had a chance to vocally backhand a criminal across the nose with violent deductions.

"Sherlock, _what did you do_?"

He ignored him (nothing new there) and bent at the waist so he could examine Mycroft closer. John could see the hazy desperation in Sherlock's dark eyes as he implored Mycroft to face him, to look him in the eye and remember. But Mycroft stiffly continued his task like a programmed robot, trussing the bleacher up in enough wires and power couplings to light up a house.

"Mycroft look at me." Sherlock whispered, loud enough to be heard over John's frantic breathing.

A pair of pliers fell out of his hand and clattered on the floor like the ringing of a gong. He still didn't look at Sherlock.

"Myc!" Myriam yelled. "You don't want to be put in time out do you?"

Mycroft shook his head and finished his task at lightning speed, running to stand beside Myriam again.

"Alright boys! I suppose I'll have to explain the rules, or you might end up killing yourselves before we get into the thick of it."

John glared at Myriam, hellfire in his eyes. How dare she threaten the Holmes'. Nothing would happen to them on his watch.

"The basics; you do what I say or I shock you with fifty volts. You disobey more than three times and Mycroft will kill you, isn't that right dear?" She punctuated the threat by ruffling Mycroft's hair fondly.

Myriam took Mycroft's hand between her own. Sherlock growled like a dog and cursed her once more for good measure.

"You might want to start playing nice Mr. Holmes. Or else I might have to make you go first."

John hit the cheap plastic of the bleacher with his hand, "First in bloody what?"

"Seeing who lasts the longest against each other. Mr. Watson, I believe you will be our lucky winner. Mycie dear, restrain the other one." She said with a flick of her dainty fingers.

In an instant Mycroft was wrapping an arm around Sherlock's torso and a hand across his mouth. John could hear him yell a muffled warning, but his attention was drawn back to Myriam immediately.

John was properly afraid. His brain screamed at him, his neck hairs stood on end, and his blood raced on fire.

He had never been hypnotized before, and he bloody wasn't going to allow it to happen now.

John crammed his eyes shut to block out the image of Myriam sauntering towards him and pulled his knees up to cover his ears.

That didn't stop him from hearing Myriam's cool, fluid tones whisper in his ear, " _You hate Sherlock Holmes_."


	89. Opponent (part 9)

**Opponent**

 _noun-_

 _someone who competes against or fights another in a contest, game, or argument; a rival or adversary._

* * *

Sherlock tried to scream. He struggled fruitlessly against Mycroft's hands, even going as far as biting his brother's fingers. He didn't even react when Sherlock drew blood.

Sherlock couldn't do anything as he watched John slowly fall under Myriam's spell. John was curled up in a ball trying to resist, but even from a meter away he could tell his strength was waning.

Myriam was bent over John, whispering in his ears, circling him like a hawk.

Sherlock realized it was all over as she stood straight with a triumphant glee twisting her face.

" _Now, sleep._ " She said with a snap of her fingers and John's body relaxed into a sleeping pose.

Sherlock couldn't see his face, but his head was lolled down like a marionette waiting to dance. John had lost the battle.

Myriam unshackled John's ankles with a flick of her wrist but left his hands handcuffed. That must mean she has doubts, she doesn't want him to be completely free, there is still a chance!

Sherlock barely noticed when Mycroft did the same to him, only realizing he could now walk freely when his brother pushed him roughly into the court. A length of cord ran from his hands to the battery, still tethering him to a potencial electrifying death. On second glance John had one too.

Now that he was closer to John, Sherlock could make out the words Myriam was crooning in his ear.

" _I am going to count down from ten, and after each number your anger will build as your true memories come back to you. When I reach one you will wake, and you will remember what he did to you, how he burned your heart. You hate him with your entire being after what he did. He betrayed you. John, how does that make you feel?"_

John muttered something that Sherlock could not hear.

" _Good, good. When you wake everything will finally be clear to you."_

Sherlock mouth dropped open as he watched John nod to her words. This couldn't be real, it was scientifically impossible to control a human being with nothing but words and a voice.

Mycroft was standing right behind him, it wouldn't take much to stop Sherlock from running at Myriam, and he had no weapon to speak of since he lost John's gun.

He realized he should speak up and stop this, he needed to get John to snap out of this, and Mycroft's hand was no longer obstructing his speech. These silly games needed to end.

" _John!_ " He yelled.

No sound came out.

Sherlock tried to take a step, but a strong hand clamped on his shoulder.

Sherlock's jaw worked as he screamed at Myriam, who had turned to watch his struggles with a belligerent smile.

 _His voice was completely gone._

She sighed with fake remorse. "Sorry dear, but I thought this might happen. So I took some... _hypnotic_ precautions the _first_ time you woke up. You won't remember it of course. I said one word and you forgot it all, even the _trigger word._ "

A trigger word.

 _Ah ha._

If there was a trigger word to make him stop talking, there must be a fail-safe word to reverse it. _The same with Mycroft and John._ He just needed to figure out what it was.

Myriam turned back to John who was limp and lifeless atop his section.

" _Ten."_

 _No, no, no, I need more time._

John's eyebrows drew together in confusion.

" _Nine."_

Sherlock watched as his best friend's face hardened.

 _"Eight."_

John's fists balled beside him.

 _"Seven."_

His face twisted into a sheet of pain.

 _"Six."_

The pain melted away and was replaced with the familiar clench of John's jaw that surfaced when he was angry about anything.

" _Five."_

John began to tremble and Sherlock felt sick.

 _"Four."_

His ears were red, a very telling sign.

 _"Three."_

John's lips rose in a snarl.

 _"Two."_

It wasn't John sitting on the bleacher anymore.

 _"One."_


	90. Suspense (part 10)

**Suspense**

 _noun-_

 _a state or feeling of excited or anxious uncertainty about what may happen._

* * *

John opened his eyes. Then immediately shut them again.

Sherlock watched as John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out what; he did not know.

"John sweet heart, it's time. You have to remember." Myriam said, grabbing John's hand and pulling the shaking man out of his seat.

She placed him like a clay figurine mere meters from where Sherlock stood. He chewed his lip anxiously as he watched John's internal battle play out on his features.

Myriam placed her hands on John's shoulders, crooning soft nothings into his ear in a soothing gesture.

"Stop it." Sherlock snarled, surprising himself when his voice echoed in the Gymnasium.

 _She had said the trigger word again... and I missed it!_

Myriam smiled sickly at him and he realized his mistake. At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John was finally called out of his stupor.

Sherlock knew right as John's hazel eyes blinked open that his John had lost the war.

John appeared slightly stunned, but quickly focused on Sherlock in front of him. He felt a tickle of dismay run up his neck as pure, unadulterated hatred overtook his best friend's face. It was wrong seeing such negative emotion on the man that helped old ladies load their grocery bags into taxis. That spent hard earned cash on pet toys to take to the animal shelter. That donated old books to the children's library down the street.

Sherlock found that it actually hurt his heart. The way John was glaring at him with such blazing anger, it made the world feel wrong.

John seemed to grow in size as his fury piled up. " _You."_ he hissed with a lethal amount of venom.

Sherlock sucked in a hesitant breath. "John, calm down. You know this isn't real-"

"SHUT UP!"

John began to advance on him, and Sherlock found himself stumbling back into Mycroft who roughly pushed him away.

"John, John be rational-"

John spat at his feet as he nearly barreled into him, "Don't you _ever_ talk to me again after what you did, you have _no_ right _to ever utter another cursed word on this earth again_!"

Sherlock dodged John's attack, brain taking over and assessing John's weak spots.

 _Left arm bandaged from bullet graze from last months case,_

 _Sore knee from dislocating it a couple months ago,_

 _Vulnerable spot just below left collar bone on bullet entry hole-_ STOP IT.

Sherlock felt guilty even thinking about the ways he could hurt John, _no,_ he was going to find a way out of this without going on the defensive.

Sherlock thought at lightning speed as he dodged a right hook from John.

Mycroft was blocking the way to the double doors coming into the Gymnasium, and knowing Myriam she must have taken the precaution and locked them. There were no windows to speak of except for a skylight in the middle of the ceiling, _not getting out that way_ , and the only other doors were to the offices of the coaches and teachers.

That left the Girls and Boys changing rooms.

In Uni the changing rooms had a back door leading out to the main hall, but depending on a 12.5% chance that there was an outer door was taking a high end risk.

And there was the other problem of solving the mystery of John's trigger word.

If there were only a way to get Myriam to reveal John's and Mycroft's trigger words and still escape through the Locker rooms that would be bloody brilliant.

Sherlock had an idea. But it was going to be painful.

He braced himself for the pain and stopped dodging John's sloppy rage driven attacks. "John, I'm sorry."

If he knew John at all, he knew he had a heart of gold. He sure could hold grudges like a pro, but when someone apologized to him? He turned into a puddle of smiles and forgiveness.

Sherlock closed his eyes, not sure what to expect, but certainly hoping for-

His feet left the ground and Sherlock's eyes flew open. His back rammed up against a wall and he looked John at John's purple face and his hands circling his throat in a vice.

"Jo-... hn, sto-op!" He choked out and clawed at his best friend's hands.

Myriam squealed in delight.

The world began to go black as Sherlock heard John whisper,

"I can never forgive you for what you did. You killed Sherlock Holmes and you deserve to die."

.

 **A/N goodness I was so close to forgetting this! I started National Novel Writing Month today, and boy is it a handful. I literally wrote for hours upon hours today and didn't even meet my word goal. I'm gonna have to see if I can keep up with Daily Occurrences as I do NaNo in July... I certainly want to and I promise to try my best.**


	91. Mistake (part 11)

**Mistake**

 _noun-_

 _an action or judgment that is misguided or wrong._

* * *

Hating himself, Sherlock repeatedly pounded the place where John had been shot until he screamed in pain, and dropped Sherlock to the sweet, heavenly ground. The man dragged in deep gasping breaths; swallowing the oxygen in truckloads as he tried to stand upright.

"Get up John! You have to finish him!" Myriam yelled.

Sherlock felt twice as much guilt as his eyes found John collapsed on the ground; clenching his shoulder in agony.

"John," he dared to step closer to his friend. "John I'm right here, I'm not dead."

His voice was barely a rasp but John definitely heard him as his leg spun out and knocked Sherlock's feet out from under him and he fell ungracefully to the pitiless ground.

"You killed my best friend!" John screamed until his voice cracked. He was on top of Sherlock in a second, tears pouring down his face. "He needed you and you betrayed him, you killed him you bastard! Did you think for a second that it was never your fault? You. Left. Him. You can never go back and change what you did no matter how much you regret it!"

He punctuated this with a vicious punch to Sherlock's nose. He cried out as the bone snapped like elastic, shattering and spewing blood like a fountain.

 _Now John was going to finish the job,_ Sherlock realized through a thick haze.

His eyes were still fluttering as he watched John rear back for another punch. Then something yanked him away.

Sherlock forced his eyes to open as John's weight left his legs and struggled to sit up.

John was writhing on the ground in a sort of fit just centimeters away from Sherlock's feet, limbs jerking and pitiful mewls escaping his lips.

"John? John!" Sherlock scrambled up and knelt beside him, hesitant to touch him and unsure of what was happening.

"Oh sorry dear, I forgot to mention something!" Myriam cried drawing Sherlock's attention. She was standing back beside the tables of equipment holding a remote control. "Whenever you disobey... the other gets shocked. Quite electrifying isn't it?"

"I'm sorry for what I did to you Myriam! But leave John and my brother out of this, please. You know they are innocent!" Sherlock shouted as John continued to convulse before him.

Myriam pouted and she looked almost regretful for a single moment. Then her maniac delight returned.

"No deal! Now fight him, or he gets another shock! And after that, death!"

She pressed a button and John stopped shaking. "Hey, are you alright?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John didn't answer and curled in on himself, hugging his limbs together in the fetal position. Sherlock was shocked when John's shoulders started to shake once more as he was racked with silent sobs.

"Your fault... your fault... I hate you... hate you..." John sucked in a rattling breath and winced in pain.

"John, I'm sorry. Please be okay." Sherlock whispered, gently touching John's shoulder.

John immediately jumped away from his touch and turned his red, tear-filled eyes to him.

"It's your fault he jumped."

" _What?_ " Sherlock asked in surprise.

"He was your friend, you should have been able to tell he was lying. He needed you and you left. Then he jumped, because you let him down, _you doubted_ _him_."

He understood now. Sherlock understood, _bloody hell_ , he got it.

"I am not John Watson. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am _alive_ John."

His fail-safe word was Sherlock, it all made sense now. Behind them, Myriam screamed in fury.

John blinked and it was gone. The monster inside him was gone.

His John was back.

" _S-Sherlock?"_ He whispered, his lips quivering.

That's when the fire struck and burned Sherlock's bones to dust.

 **A/N I'll be taking a week long break from this story to work on my novel, but I'll be back next Monday!**


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